CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


BERTRAND 
ACRES  OF 

240  Long   Beach   8!vd> 
EUadi   2, 


(Fronportra.il  token,  in 


CS~vM  J  /'V'W 

CENTENNIAL 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 

BY 

KATE    HARRINGTON. 


DO    YOU    LOVE    POETRY? 

Do  you  love  poetry?  When  o'er  your  spirit 

Shadows  of  grief  and  of  care  slowly  steal, 
Do  the  low  whispers  which  some  souls  inherit 

Beautiful  thoughts  to  your  fancy  reveal  ? 
Oh  !  if  this  be  so,  though  sometimes  earth-weary, 

Life  is  not  always  unchangingly  real, 
Like  to  a  desert,  all  lonely  and  dreary, 

Having  no  gleams  of  the  lovely  Ideal. 

If  you  love  poetry,  sorrow  and  sadness, 

Mountains  of  cares  and  afflictions  may  throng, 
Yet  will  your  spirit  leap  up  in  her  gladness 

When  strains  burst  forth  from  the  fountain  of  song. 
For  there  is  something  within  us  adoring, — 

Something  no  mortal  has  ever  defined, 
Raising  us  upward  whene'er  we  are  poring 

Over  these  mystical  dreams  of  the  mind. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
].    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1876. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1876,  by 

R.   S.    POLLARD, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


DEDICATION. 

IOWA. 

UPON  the  breast  of  Iowa 

An  honored  sire  reposes ; 
And  o'er  a  sainted  mother's  clay 

Blossom  her  summer  roses. 
My  eldest  darling  passed,  this  way, 

Up,  through  the  portals  pearly ; 
A  blue-eyed  baby,  too,  they  lay 

Beneath  the  violets  early. 

Where  erst  the  red  man's  bow  was  bent, 

Beside  our  noble  river, 
An  elder  brother  rests  content, 

In  home  and  hearthstone,  ever. 
An  only  sister  keeps,  like  me, 

Watch  where  her  first-born  slumbers ; 
And  lists  in  vain,  on  bended  knee, 

To  catch  her  waking  numbers. 

'Twas  here  I  bent,  a  blighted  vine, 
A  bruised  reed,  well-nigh  broken, 


DEDICA  TION. 

Till  kindly  hands  were  clasped  in  mine, 
And  cheering  words  were  spoken. 

And  'tis  for  this  my  heart  would  stay, — 
My  soul,  till  death,  would  hover 

Near  friends  who  stood  beside  the  flood 
When  love  and  life  passed  over. 

I  pledge  my  songs  to  Iowa, 

If  they  to  effort  nerve  her; 
I  pledge  my  heart  to  Iowa 

Whene'er  my  love  may  serve  her. 
'Twas  here  my  marriage-vows  were  given, 

'Twas  here  my  children  found  me ; 
My  home  is  here,  and  here  may  Heaven 

Fold  angel-wings  around  me. 

Then  join  my  prayer  for  Iowa ; 

May  valiant  sons  defend  her  ! 
And  may  her  daughters  give  alway 

Their  love,  warm,  true,  and  tender! 
May  sacred  memories  hold  us  here, 

And,  till  Life's  brief  dream  closes, 
May  we  her  name,  her  soil  revere, 

And  sleep  beneath  her  roses ! 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Iowa's  Centennial  Poem    ........       9 

Mother  .         .         .         , 19 

Legend  of  the  Indian  Summer .         .         .         .         .         .         .22 

The  Children   .         .         ...         .       ....         .         .27 

Baby  Margie     .         .         .         .         .         .         ..        .         .  29 

To  a  Night- Blooming  Cereus    .         .         .         .         .         .         -34 

The  Elder  Brother    .         . 37 

Madeline  Bower       .         .         .        .         .         .         •         .         .40 

Hold  the  Light         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .43 

A  Temperance  Poem         ........     45 

In  Memoriam  .         .....       ' 53 

Josey's  Birthday         .........     56 

A  Welcome  to  Our  "  Jo" 59 

A  Dirge  for  Horace  Greeley 62 

Lake  Michigan          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -65 

The  Shadows  on  the  Wall         . 68 

Lines  to  my  Father's  Friend     .......     74 

What  are  the  Snowflakes  ? 76 

The  Baby '  •     77 

October    .         .         . 80 

My  Mother's  Friend 82 

They  Spoke  in  Whispers 84 

i*  5 


6  TABLE    OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Only  Lent 86 

Esto  Perpetua 90 

Eda          . 92 

Mamma's  Valentine 94 

Nelly's  Story 96 

I'll  Meet  thee  Alone 101 

Little  Georgie  Ball .         .103 

The  New  Year 105 

Greeting  to  the  Sir  Knights no 

I  am  Waiting  for  Thee      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .112 

Woman's  Voice         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .114 

The  Broken -Hearted 116 

A  Valentine 121 

A  Welcome  to  Mrs.  Frances  D.  Gage 123 

Oh,  Why  was  He  taken  ? 126 

My  Mother's  Glasses 128 

The  Mississippi  River .130 

Mount  Vernon ..........  132 

One  Year  Old 135 

Oh,  what  shall  be  my  Song  To-Night  ? 138 

Lines  Accompanying  a  Cross 140 

Voiceless  Prayer 141 

Gone  to  Sleep 143 

Grandmother  Dickey         ........   145 

The  Eastern  Star      . 148 

Twenty-One      ..........  156 

Old  Settler's  Song     .         , 158 

Recollections  of  Pittsburg 160 

Welcome  to  Teachers 167 

Centennial 169 


TABLE    OF  CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE 

Eighteen  Hundred  and  Sixty-Two    .    •     ,        .         .         .         .171 

Angel  Whispers         .         .         .         .        .         .         «.»         .178 

My  Father's  Birthday        .         .         ...         .         .         .         .181 

The  End  of  the  Rainbow          .         .         .         .      ~  •         .         .184 

The  Dying  Soldier   .         .         .         .         .         .         .  __      .         .   186 

Call  Me  Thine  Own .'.         .         .   190 

God's  Candle .  192 

Away!      .         .         ..         .         ......   194 

Parting  Song     ..........   196 

The  World  wants  Women         .         ...         .         .         .         .198 

Maymie    .         .        7        .         .         •  '.•'"•         .         .         .  200 
'Tis  Not  Death          .         . '       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  207 

The  Saddest  Thing  .........  209 

I  Must  Learn  to  Live  Without  Thee          .         .         .         .         .212 

Anniversary      t         ." "  -   .         .'        .         .         .  '      .         .         .   214 
Lines  on  Receiving  Maymie's  Picture         .         .         .         ,         .217 
Out  of  the  Ark          .         .         .        f        .         .         .         .         .  219 

Eighteen  Hundred  and  Fifty-Nine    %         .         *         .         .         .221 
The  Flag  of  the  Free         ........  230 

POEMS   SELECTED   FROM   THE  WRITINGS   OF   PROF.  N.  R.  SMITH  : 

Apostrophe  to  the  Galaxy  .......  235 

Anticipation  and  Possession        .         .         .  -  .         .  238 

The  Feast  of  the  Fairies 240 

Flowers     ..        ...        .        .        .-..         .  243 

O  land  Oh! .246 

^  Temperance  Song  for  the  Fourth  of  July          .         .         .  249 
Old  Soldiers       .         .         ...         .'       .         .         .         .251 


IOWA'S    CENTENNIAL    POEM. 

A  HUNDRED  years  ago  to-day 
A  barren  wild  our  borders  lay ; 
Our  stately  forests  grandly  stood 
Wrapped  in  majestic  solitude. 
Our  rivers,  coursing  to  the  sea, 
Felt  not  the  chain  of  tyranny; 
Nor  yet  above  their  glittering  sheen 
Could  Freedom's  stripes  and  stars  be  seen. 

The  red  man  moored  his  birch  canoe 
Where  sweet  wild-flowers  luxuriant  grew; 
Where  sumachs,  o'er  the  pebbly  brink, 
Bent  down  their  crimson  lips  to  drink ; 
And  violets,  with  their  tender  eyes, 
Looked  up  in  wondering  surprise 
At  Indian  maid,  who,  by  the  wave, 
Waited  to  greet  her  warrior  brave. 

A  hundred  years  !     Gone  like  a  dream, 

All,  save  our  woods  and  noble  stream  ; 

A*  9 


jo  IOWA'S   CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

The  red  man,  with  his  bended  bow, 
No  longer  fells  the  bounding  doe. 
The  camp-fire's  curling  smoke  no  more 
Is  seen  beside  the  chieftain's  door, 
As  Black  Hawk  talks,  in  whispers  grave, 
To  Gitchie  Manito  the  Brave. 
But  on  this  broad,  luxuriant  plain 
Wave  golden  fields  of  ripening  grain  ; 
Our  pastures,  with  their  gurgling  rills, 
Feed  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
While  giant  steamers  plow  our  streams, 
From  which  our  starry  banner  gleams. 
The  mansions  on  our  prairies  wide, 
Oft  with  a  rude  cot  by  their  side, 
Show  how,  by  years  of  patient  toil, 
The  lordly  tillers  of  our  soil 
Have  reared  such  homes  as  freemen  may 
With  all  their  shackles  torn  away. 


The  flying  shuttle,  whirling  wheel, 

Invention's  mighty  power  reveal. 

We  sweep,  by  steam,  o'er  earth's  broad  track, 

And  lightning  sends  our  whispers  back. 

We  share  the  nation's  glory,  too, 

By  holding  to  the  world's  broad  view 


IOWA'S   CENTENNIAL    POEM.  It 

Our  men  of  mark,  of  genius  rare, 
Scattered,  like  sunbeams,  everywhere. 

• 

On  history's  page  will  shine  most  bright 
Such  names  as  Belknap,  Kirkwood,  Wright, 
Howell,  McCreary,  Mason,  Hall, 
Dodge,  faithful  to  his  country's  call, 
And  warriors  who,  through  war's  wild  shock, 
Anchored  our  ship  on  Union  rock. 

The  call  that  rose  at  Lexington, 
Where  Freedom's  struggle  was  begun, 
Reached  not  these  shores,  yet  still  we  claim 
This  priceless  heritage  the  same. 
They  were  our  ancestors  who  fought 
When  liberty  with  blood  was  bought. 
And  Concord,  with  her  patriot  band, 
Whose  sons  to-day  rejoicing  stand, 
Deserves  no  more  the  honors  won 
Than  we,  so  near  the  setting  sun. 

Could  our  hearts  bound  with  wilder  thrill 

If  we  had  met  on  Bunker's  Hill? 

Are  patriots  truer  on  the  sod 

Whence  those  brave  souls  went  up  to  God? 


IOWA'S   CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

Not  if,  with  loyal  heart  and  hand, 
We  held  the  heritage  they  planned ; 
Not  if,  along  this  verdant  track, 
When  Dissolution's  cloud  hung  black, 
Our  soldiers  poured  their  blood  like  rain, — 
Deluged  our  sod  with  crimson  stain, — 
And  flung  our  starry  banner  out 
With  glad,  prolonged  victorious  shout, 
Proclaiming  where  its  bright  folds  waved 
Our  fathers'  boon — the  Union — saved. 

Yes,  side  by  side  with  those  who  sped 

Where'er  the  gallant  Putnam  led, 

With  those  whose  forms  grew  cold  and  still 

Upon  the  brow  of  Bunker's  Hill, 

We  proudly  write,  on  History's  page, 

The  heroes  of  the  present  age ; 

Our  dauntless  braves,  who  did  not  quail 

Beneath  the  storm  of  iron  hail, 

But  who,  like  valiant  Warren,  fell 

Guarding  the  land  they  loved  so  well. 

Mills,  Baker,  Torrence,  Worthington, 
Martyrs  to  Freedom  dearly  won, 
Beside  their  tombs  our  patriots  cry, 
"As  much  of  valor  as  could  die  !" 


IOWA'S  CENTENNIAL   POEM.  13 

Ask  ye  if  Woman  shrinking  stood, 

When  rang  War's  cry  o'er  field  and  flood  ? 

Did  mothers,  racked  by  dire  alarms, 

Prison  their  sons  with  clinging  arms? 

No ;  worthy  of  the  patriot  sires 

That  lit  the  Revolution  fires, 

They  forced  the  tears,  that  needs  must  start, 

Backward,  to  trickle  through  the  heart, 

And  said,  in  accents  firm  and  low, 

"  Our  prayers  will  follow, — go,  boys,  go  !" 


So  when  ye  boast,  as  boast  ye  will, 
Of  the  green  slopes  of  Bunker's  Hill, 
And  vow  that  ne'er  shall  be  forgot 
How  Shiloh  and  Pea  Ridge  were  fought ; 
When,  with  fond  pride,  you  teach  your  son 
How  Tuttle's  men  took  Donelson  ; 
When  to  Alltoona  you  refer, 
And  tell  how  Corse  defended  her ; 
Or  when  you  link  with  Archer's  name 
The  sword  his  son  will  proudly  claim, 
Forget  not  Woman,  who,  through  tears, 
Read  how  the  form  that  other  years 
Had  seen  soft-pillowed  on  her  breast, — 
The  lips  her  own  so  fondly  pressed 


IOWA'S  CENTENNIAL    POEM. 

Had  murmured  forth  their  dying  moan — 
Had  paled  and  chilled,  unsoothed — alone, — 
Remember,  every  gallant  one 
Who  fell  was  some  fond  mother's  son. 

I  stood  beneath  our  State's  proud  dome, 
And  saw  the  dear  old  Flag*  come  home. 
Weary  and  worn  and  well-nigh  spent, 
To  you,  O  statesmen  !   it  was  sent, 
To  hold  as  a  more  priceless  gem 
Than  England's  royal  diadem. 
On  shattered  staff  the  wounded  bars 
Held  feebly  up  the  golden  stars, 
While  the  scarred  veteran  seemed  to  say, 
"E'en  death  is  sweet  in  Iowa." 

I  fancied,  as  they  bore  it  by, 
Its  red  stripes  glowed  with  deeper  dye, 
Since  it  had  cheered  each  patriot  one 
Whose  life-blood  crimsoned  Donelson. 
Purer  its  lines  of  spotless  white 
Since  trusting  mothers  knelt  at  night, 
Lifting  their  yearning  souls  above 
On  the  white  wings  of  Faith  and  Love, 

*  Flag  of  the  Iowa  Second,  General  J.  M.  Tuttle,  commander. 


IOWA'S  CENTENNIAL   POEM.  15 

Pleading  His  arm  might  be  the  stay 
Of  valiant  hearts  from  Iowa. 

Deeper  its  blue  since  dimming  eyes 
Had  faintly  smiled  in  sweet  surprise 
Upon  the  silken  folds  that  spread 
Their  pitying  shadows  o'er  the  dead, — 
The  loyal  dead,  for  whom  'twas  meet 
Their  Flag  should  be  their  winding-sheet. 

Brighter  its  stars  of  deathless  sheen 
Since  it  had  waved  o'er  fields  of  green, 
Floated  where  giant  steamers  sailed, 
Swayed — trembled — reeled — yet  never  trailed. 

Well  may  we  celebrate  this  day 

With  glad,  triumphant  shout ; 
Well  may  we  bid  dull  care  "Away," 

And  fling  our  banners  out. 
E'en  Nature  joins  the  welcome  sounds 

By  grateful  nearts  begun, 
Till  from  our  rocks  and  vales  rebounds 

The  name  of  Washington. 

England  her  Wellington  may  claim  ; 
France  of  Napoleon  boast ; 


1 6  IOWA'S   CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

Scotia  extol  the  deathless  fame 
Of  Wallace  and  his  host  ;v 

But  more  ecstatic  is  the  thrill 
That  fires  Columbia's  son, 

When  lip  and  voice  grow  strangely  still 
At  thought  of  Washington. 

Perchance  e'en  now  the  shades  of  those 

Who  first  in  battle  led 
Have  left  their  Eden  of  repose 

To  hover  o'er  our  head. 
They  were  the  sowers  of  the  seed 

That  made  our  country  free, 
And  we,  the  reapers,  loud  indeed 

May  shout  forth  "Victory  !" 

Nor  to  the  arm  of  flesh  alone 

Attribute  our  success ; 
But  to  the  One  who  led  us  on — 

The  God  who  deigned  to  bless. 
And  while,  to-day,  our  banners  wave 

For  battles  dearly  won, 
We  bless  the  power  that  victory  gave 

To  our  own  Washington. 

Bought  with  the  life-blood  of  the  brave, 
Held  through  dissension's  shock, 


IOWAS  CENTENNIAL   POEM.  17 

The  heritage  our  fathers  gave 

Stands  firm  on  Freedom's  rock. 
Then  send  your  welcomes  near  and  far, 

Let  party  discord  cease; 
And  learn  of  him  who,  first  in  War, 

Was  first  alike  in  Peace. 


Yes,  patriot  brothers,  awaken  ! 

Leave  the  red  field  of  carnage  behind ; 
Be  former  contentions  forsaken, 

And  thus  prove  all  brave  hearts  are  kind. 
Would  ye  make  this,  our  glorious  Centennial, 

A  type  of  the  Union  above? 
Then  join  in  our  earthly  millennial, 

And  crown  it  with  brotherly  love. 


Oh,  be  not  by  prejudice  blinded  ! 

Our  wanderers  had  something  to  learn  ; 
And  by  parable  all  are  reminded 

That  e'en  prodigal  sons  may  return. 
Then  let  generous  welcomes  be  proffered ; 

Give  them  robes  of  a  right  royal  hue  ; 
Let  the  rings  that  restore  them  be  offered 

By  victors  who  honor  the  Blue. 


IOWA'S   CENTENNIAL    POEM. 

They  have  desolate  hearthstones  among  them, 

And  hearts  that  still  moan  in  their  pain, 
When  the  thought  of  the  anguish  that  wrung  them 

Floats  over  remembrance  again. 
Then  when  come  your  tear-drops,  upstarting, 

For  friends  who  passed  over  the  tide, 
Forget  not  that  many  a  parting 

Brought  woe  on  the  Southern  side. 

In  the  names  of  our  patriots  ascended ; 

In  the  names  of  our  heroes  who  bled ; 
By  the  cause  they  so  nobly  defended  ; 

By  the  Rachels  who  moaned  o'er  our  dead ; 
We  ask  you  to  pledge  them,  true-hearted, 

A  covenant-promise  anew ; 
Remembering  'mong  patriots  departed 

No  line  parts  the  Gray  from  the  Blue. 


MOTHER. 

AGED  EIGHTY-FOUR   YEARS. 

IN  the  voyage  of  life,  'mid  its  tempest  and  gale, 

The  glow  of  one  beacon  has  never  grown  pale ; 

It  burst  into  flame  at  the  hour  of  my  birth, 

And  has  since  been  the  brightest,  most  steadfast  on  earth. 

Other  beamings,  illusive,  might  lure  to  betray, 

Other  flames,  evanescent,  might  smoulder  away, 

But  the  lignt  that  from  infancy  brightened  and  blessed 

Was  the  love  of  the  mother  now  called  to  her  Rest. 

Oh,  the  welcoming  arms  with  their  tender  embrace, 

The  glance  of  affection  that  lighted  her  face, 

The  lips  that  so  often  have  opened  in  prayer 

That  my  feet  might  be  guarded  from  pitfall  and  snare, — 

All  have  passed  from  my  sight,  and  are  hidden  away 

In  the  gloom  that  encircles  the  spiritless  clay ; 

But  the  soul, — the  immortal, — released  from  its  bars, 

Has  laid  down  life's  burden  and  leapt  to  the  stars, 

19 


20  MOTHER. 

Where  the  dear  mother-love,  all  undimmed,  unrepressed, 
Will  be  ours  again  when  we  enter  our  Rest. 

'Tis  a  comforting  thought  that  earth's  pathway  was  trod 
From  the  morn  of  her  life,  with  the  people  of  God  ; 
That  when  sorrow  was  deepest — when  death  sought  her 

fold- 
She  reached  up  her  hand  for  the  Father  to  hold. 
And  we  know  that  He  clasped  it,  for,  strengthened  and 

sure, 

Her  faith  made  her  feel  in  His  promise  secure 
To  the  humble  believer ;  and  long  patient  years 
Of  suffering  were  spent  without  doublings  or  fears  ; 
And  when,  in  Life's  twilight,  she  asked  for  release, 
When,  wearied,  she  prayed  that  her  waiting  might  cease, 
The  Saviour  reached  down  as  she  slept  on  my  breast, 
Unloosened  her  fetters,  and  called  her  to  Rest. 

So  quietly,  softly,  the  summons  was  given, 
We  knew  not  our  loss  till  the  portals  of  heaven 
Had  oped  to  receive  her,  and  waiting  ones  there 
Had  greeted  her  coming  with  anthem  and  prayer. 
\nd  she — oh  !  she  felt  not  our  throbbings  of  pain, 
Nor  marked  our  wild  wish  to  recall  her  again  ; 
For  the  voices  of  children,  her  darlings,  her  own, 
Enchanted  her  soul  with  their  rapturous  tone, 


MOTHER.  21 

While  "daughter!"  "wife!"  "sister!"  from  loved  ones 

again 

Broke  soft  on  her  spirit  in  joyful  refrain. 
Her  pilgrimage  ended  and  heaven  possessed, 
We,  alone,  feel  the  pang,  she  has  entered  her  Rest. 


LEGEND   OF    THE   INDIAN    SUMMER, 

I  HAVE  learned  a  simple  legend, 

Never  found  in  books  of  lore, 
Copied  not  from  old  tradition, 

Nor  from  classics  read  of  yore ; 

But  the  breezes  sang  it  to  me 

With  a  low  and  soft  refrain, 
While  the  golden  leaves  and  scarlet 

Fluttered  down  to  catch  the  strain. 

And  the  grand  old  trees  above  me, 
As  their  stately  branches  swayed, 

Threw  across  my  couch  of  crimson 
More  of  sunlight  than  of  shade. 

I  had  lain  there  dreaming,  musing 
On  the  summer's  vanished  bloom, 

Wondering  if  each  penciled  leaflet 
Did  not  mark  some  flow'ret's  tomb ; 

Thinking  how  each  tree  could  tell  me 
Many  a  tale  of  warrior's  fame ;  - 

22 


LEGEND    OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Gazing  at  the  sky,  and  asking 

How  the  "Indian  Summer"  came. 

Then  methought  a  whispered  cadence 
Stole  from  out  the  haunted  trees, 

While  the  leaves  kept  dropping,  dropping, 
To  the  music  of  the  breeze. 

"I  will  tell  thee,"  said  the  whisper, 

"What  I've  learned  from  Nature's  book; 

For  the  sunbeams  wrote  this  legend 
On  the  margin  of  a  brook. 

"  'Tis  about  an  Indian  maiden, 
She  the  star-flower  of  her  race, 

With  a  heart  whose  soft  emotions 
Rippled  through  her  soul-lit  face. 

"All  her  tribe  did  homage  to  her, 
For  her  father  was  their  chief; 

He  was  stern,  and  she  forgiving, — 
He  brought  pain,  and  she  relief. 

"And  they  called  him  'Indian  Winter,' 

All  his  actions  were  so  cold  ; 
Her  they  named  the  'Indian  Summer,' 

For  she  seemed  a  thread  of  gold 


LEGEND    OF  THE   INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Flashing  through  her  native  forest, 
Beaming  in  the  wigwam  lone, 

Singing  to  the  birds,  her  playmates, 
Till  they  warbled  back  her  tone. 

"  When  the  summer  days  were  ended, 
And  the  chilling  months  drew  near, 

When  the  clouds  hung,  dull  and  leaden, 
And  the  leaves  fell,  brown  and  sere, 

"  Brought  they  to  the  chieftain's  presence 
One,  a  'pale-face,'  young  and  brave, 

But  whom  youth  nor  manly  valor 
Could  from  savage  vengeance  save. 

"  '  Bring  him  forth  !'  in  tones  of  thunder 
Thus  the  'Indian  Winter*  cried, 

While  the  gentle  '  Indian  Summer' 
Softly  flitted  to  his  side. 

"  When  the  tomahawk  was  lifted, 

And  the  scalping-knife  gleamed  high, 

Pride,  revenge,  and  bloody  hatred 
Glared  within  the  warrior's  eye  ; 

"  And  the  frown  upon  his  forehead 
Darker,  deeper,  sterner  grew  ; 


LEGEND   OF   THE  INDIAN  SUMMER,  25 

While  the  lowering  clouds  above  them 
Hid  the  face  of  heaven  from  view. 

"  '  Spare  him  !  oh,  my  father,  spare  him !' 

Friend  and  foe  were  thrust  apart, 
While  the  golden  thread  of  sunlight 

Twined  around  the  red  man's  heart. 

"  And  her  eye  was  full  of  pity, 

And  her  voice  was  full  of  love, 
As  she  told  him  of  the  wigwam 

On  the  hunting-ground  above, 

"  Where  great  Manito  was  talking, — 

She  could  hear  him  in  the  breeze ; 
How  he  called  the  '  pale-face'  brother — 

Smoked  with  him  the  pipe  of  peace. 

"  Then  the  warrior's  heart  relented, 

And  the  glittering  weapon  fell: 
'  For  the  maiden's  sake,'  he  muttered, 

'  Thou  art  pardoned, — fare  thee  well !' 

"  And  the  sun,  that  would  have  slumbered 

Till  the  spring-time  came  again, 
Earthward  from  his  garnered  brightness 

Threw  a  flood  of  golden  rain; 
3 


26  LEGEND    OF  THE   INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"And  the  'Indian  Summer'  saw  it, 
She,  the  gentle  forest  child  ; 

And  to  '  Indian  Winter'  whispered, 
'  See  how  Manito  has  smiled  !' 

"All  the  tribe  received  the  omen, 
And  they  called  it  by  her  name : 

INDIAN  SUMMER,  INDIAN  SUMMER, 
It  will  ever  be  the  same. 

"Though  the  '  pale-  face'  gave  another 
To  the  lovely  maid  he  won, 

Nature  still  receives  her  tribute 
From  the  wigwam  of  the  sun. 

"  Here,  alone,  this  shining  symbol 
Gilds  the  streamlet,  warms  the  sod, 

For  no  INDIAN  SUMMER  cometh 
Save  where  Indian  feet  have  trod." 


THE    CHILDREN. 

You  may  talk  of  the  exquisite  paintings 

You  guard  with  the  tenderest  care; 
Of  your  statues  of  Parian  marble, 

So  faultless,  so  perfect,  so  rare  ; 
But  give  me  a  call,  and  I'll  show  you 

Some  pictures  more  fair  to  behold 
Than  ever  were  drawn  by  the  masters, 

Whose  names  down  the  ages  have  rolled. 

At  Christmas  I  took  down  my  statues, 

My  Cupids  and  Psyches  and  all ; 
And  the  gloom  of  the  place  made  me  shudder 

As  I  turned  to  the  desolate  wall. 
Bright  curls  that  the  sunlight  had  garnished, 

Dark  tresses  the  midnight  had  bound, 
And  mirth-loving  eyes,  all  had  vanished, 

While  red  lips  could  nowhere  be  found. 

But  now  they  are  back  in  their  niches, 

My  statues  of  value  untold  ; 
My  pictures  in  ebony  framings, 

And  some  set  in  amber  and  gold. 

27 


28  THE    CHILDREN. 

The  room  has  grown  bright  with" their   presence, 
The  gloom  and  the  silence  have  fled, 

For  the  crown  of  His  sweet  benediction 
Still  rests  on  each  innocent  head. 

And  the  thought,  as  they  gather  each  morning 

And  murmur  the  prayer  that  He  gave, 
That  His  dear,  loving  arms  are  around  them, 

Makes  my  own  sinking  heart,  ofttimes,  brave. 
So  I  nestle  down  closely  beside  them, 

And  trust,  when  the  Saviour  shall  see 
The  white  souls  that  flutter  about  me, 

His  blessing  will  touch  even  me. 

Am  I  faithful'  I  wonder,  in  tilling 

The  soil  of  their  hearts  day  by  day  ? 
Will  the  seed  I  am  patiently  sowing 

Spring  up  but  to  wither  away? 
The  mold  is  not  rocky  nor  barren, 

But  tares  may  spring  up — tares  of  sin  ; 
Yet  I  trust  to  His  care  all  their  future, 

Who  gathers  the  golden  sheaves  in. 


BABY    MARGIE. 

CAME  she  with  the  April  dawning; 

Such  a  tiny,  tender  thing, 
Little  sisters  thought  a  seraph 

Bore  her  earthward  'neath  its  wing. 
And  they  said  her  harp  was  heavy 

As  her  golden,  starry  crown, 
Else  the  kind  bestowing  angel 

Would  have  tried  to  bring  it  down. 

And  they  spoke  in  softest  whispers 

When  she  nestled  to  my  breast, 
Saying,  as  they  gazed  above  them, 

"  'Twas  so  far  she  needeth  rest." 
So  she  slumbered,  Baby  Margie, 

Dreaming  of  her  native  skies; 
This  we  knew,  for,  on  awaking, 

Heaven  still  lingered  in  her  eyes. 

April  flow'ret !     Spring's  first  blossom  ! 

How  our  thoughts  would  onward  rove, 
Picturing,  from  her  fair  unfolding, 

What  the  perfect  flower  might  prove ! 

3*  29 


BABY  MARGIE. 

Thinking  how  new  joy  would  thrill  us, 
Deeper  transports  still  be  stirred, 

When  her  trembling  voice  came  freighted 
With  the  first  sweet,  lisping  word. 

Musing  how  her  step  uncertain 

Soon  our  guidance  would  repay ; 
Tender  feet !     Life's  paths  were  rugged, — 

All  too  rough  to  lure  her  stay. 
So  she  wandered,  Baby  Margie, 

Upward  to  the  golden  strand, — 
Left  the  hearts  that  could  not  hold  her, 

Reaching  toward  the  spirit-land. 

Earth  seems  lone  and  drear  without  her, 

Home  is  robbed  of  half  its  bliss, 
For  our  hearts'  exultant  morning 

Broke  with  her  awakening  kiss. 
Faith  looks  up,  but  Love  still  turneth, 

Bruised  and  bleeding,  to  the  dust ; 
And,  in  tones  of  wildest  anguish, 

Cries  to  Him  for  perfect  trust. 

Lips  whose  gentlest  pressure  thrilled  us, 
Cheek  and  brow  so  saintly  white, 


BABY  MARGIE.  31 

Underneath  the  church-yard  daisies 

They  have  hid  ye  all  from  sight. 
Though  we  yielded  back  her  spirit 

Trustingly  to  God  who  gave, 
'Twas  as  if  our  hearts  were  buried 

When  we  left  our  darling's  grave. 

There's  an  empty  crib  beside  us, 

And  the  wrappings  still  remain, 
Showing,  from  their  careful  folding, 

Where  a  precious  form  has  lain. 
Yestereve  a  string  of  coral, 

In  my  searching,  met  my  view, 
And  a  half-worn,  crimson  stocking 

Prisoned  in  a  dainty  shoe. 

When  the  children's  sports  are  over, 

When  their  mimic  work  is  done, 
When  they  come  and  kneel  before  me, 

Hushed  and  solemn,  one  by  one, — 
When  their  low-voiced  "Our  Father" 

Meekly  from  their  young  lips  fall, 
And  they  rise  and  wait  in  silence, 

Then  I  miss  her  most  of  all. 

'Twas  her  lips,  while  yet  she  lingered, 
Claimed  the  last,  the  warmest  kiss, 


32  BABY  MARGIE. 

» 

And  their  saddened,  wistful  glances 
Tell  me  truly  what  they  miss. 

And  they  wonder  if  she  wants  me 
In  her  home  so  strange  and  new ; 

'Tis  a  point  I  cannot  answer, 
For  I  often  wonder,  too. 

Though  I  know  the  seraphs  bore  her 

To  the  mansions  of  the  blest ; 
Still,  I  think,  she  must  have  missed  me 

When  she  left  my  longing  breast. 
And  I  trust  some  angel-mother, 

Followed  by  her  pleading  eyes, 
Took  her  gently  to  her  bosom 

When  my  cherub  reached  the  skies. 

Father-love,  I  know,  is  holy : 

In  the  heavenly  Parent's  arms 
All  His  spotless  lambs  are  gathered, 

Free  from  pain  or  earth's  alarms. 
But  the  thought  that  some  fond  mother, 

Yearning  for  her  babe  below, 
Clasped  my  little  orphan-angel 

To  her  heart,  with  love  aglow, 
Makes  me  feel  that  naught  is  wanting 

To  perfect  her  bliss  above  ; 


BABY  MARGIE. 

For  her  gentle,  trusting  spirit 
Needs  a  mother's  tenderest  love. 

Kind  Old  Year  !  thou  gavest  our  treasure 

With  the  opening  buds  of  spring, 
And  our  grateful  spirits  thanked  thee 

For  thy  vernal  offering. 
But,  alas  !  thou  couldst  not  leave  her 

To  the  chance  of  coming  woe, 
So  thou  blessed  her  dreamless  slumber 

Ere  thy  summons  came  to  go. 

Fond  Old  Year  !  Such  tearful  memories 

Bind  my  mourning  soul  to  thee  ! 
In  thy  arms  my  baby  tasted 

Life  and  immortality. 
Thou  and  she  have  gone  together, — 

Crossed  the  bounds  of  Time's  dark  swell, - 
Therefore  let  my  benediction 

Mingle  with  thy  parting  knell. 


33 


B* 


TO    A     NIGHT-BLOOMING    CERE  US. 

BEAUTIFUL  flower,  with  petals  white, 
That  only  blooms  in  the  hush  of  night, 
That  never  reveals  to  the  sunlight  bold 
The  inner  beauty  thy  petals  hold, 
As  I  sit  to  night,  keeeping  watch  o'er  thee, 
Thou  seem'st  to  blossom  alone  for  me. 

I  have  known  some  hearts  like  thine  own,  fair  one, 
That  never  would  ope  to  the  glaring  sun  ; 
Whose  wealth  of  sweetness  was  treasured  up 
Like  the  golden  threads  in  thy  opening  cup ; 
Who  had  never  a  throb  nor  a  glow  at  all, 
Except  for  the  heart  that  received  them  all. 

And   some   hearts  I  have  known    that   the  gathering 

gloom 

Has  seemed  to  call  into  perfect  bloom  ; 
Whose  garnered  brightness  with  magic  power 
Came  blossoming  out  in  life's  darkest  hour; 
34 


TO  A   NIGHT-BLOOMING    CERE  US.  35 

Who  waited,  like  thee  and  the  stars  on  high, 
Ere  they  gave  their  splendor  to  earth  and  sky. 


Beautiful  flower,  in  thy  robe  of  white, 

Thou  seem'st  like  an  angel  of  peace  to-night  ; 

But,  like  joys  that  have  vanished,  or  fond  hopes  dead, 

Thy  wondrous  beauty  will  all  have  fled 

When  I  wake  at  morn,  and  I'll  only  see 

The  corpse  of  the  flower  that  bloomed  for  me. 

But,  like  other  memories  I  treasure  there, 
And  hide  in  my  heart  with  a  miser's  care, 
In  that  inner  temple,  that  none  may  see 
Except  when  I  lift  the  veil  for  thee, 
I  will  hold  the  thought  of  our  converse  sweet, 
With  hope  and  rapturous  joy  replete. 

For  we've  talked  together,  thou  and  I, 
When  none  but  God  and  ourselves  was  nigh  ; 
I  have  touched  my  cheek  to  thy  snowy  tips, 
And  breathed  a  prayer  on  thy  opening  lips ; 
And  thou,  in  turn,  to  my  weary  heart 
Didst  strength  and  comfort  and  faith  impart. 

And  now  I  will  bid  thee  a  fond  "good-night," 
With  thy  petals  spread  as  for  upward  flight ; 


3  6  TO  A    NIGHT-BLOOMING    CERE  US. 

And  my  thoughts  shall  be  of  an  angel  flower 
That  blooms  above  in  a  fairer  bower, 
Where  the  dear  ones,  waiting,  may  turn  to  see 
The  beautiful  bud  that  unclosed  for  me. 


THE    ELDER    BROTHER. 

AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED  TO   DR.  JOSEPH   A.  SMITH,  OF 
FORT   MADISON,  IOWA. 

THERE  are  heroes  in  war,  there  are  heroes  in  story, 

Whose  courage,  undaunted  when  leaden  rain  fell, 
Has  covered  their  names  with  an  unfading  glory, 

Whose  fullness  the  dim,  distant  ages  will  tell. 
But  the  theme  of  my  song  went  not  forth  with  the  rattle 

Of  steel-bristling  bayonet,  bugle  and  drum, 
But  stood  on  the  ramparts  of  life's  changeful  battle 

As  sentinel,  guarding  the  bulwarks  of  Home. 

They  are  graven  in  blood  upon  history's  pages, 

The  names  of  those  martyrs  who  hallowed  our  sod  ; 
But  heroes  like  mine  pass  unsung  through  the  Ages 

To  fill  the  first  ranks  at  the  roll-call  of  God. 
There  are  laurels  awaiting  the  conqueror  leaving 

The  red  field  of  carnage  where  triumph  was  given, 
But  none  see  the  garlands  the  angels  are  weaving 

For   him   whose  grand  deeds   are   his   bay-wreath   in 
heaven. 

4  37 


38  THE   ELDER  BROTHER. 

O  mariner  !   you  whom  the  waves  have  swept  over 

And  scooped  from   your  heart   its  glad  sunlight  and 

bloom, 
When  the  blackness  of  darkness  around  seemed  to  hover, 

And  yawning  beneath  was  a  fathomless  tomb, 
Wast  succored,  like  me,  from  Despair's  ruthless  ocean, 

Whose  billows  of  Doubt  left  nor  compass  nor  guide  ? 
Wast  shielded,  sustained,  by  a  brother's  devotion, 

Whose    love   was    the    life-boat    that    weathered    the 
tide? 

Or  when,   'mid  earth's  trials,  the   night   gathered    o'er 

you, 

And,  strength  and  heart  failing,  weak  flesh  could  not 
stand, 

-Q 

Still  constant  and  true  did  a  light  gleam  before  you, 
Held  o'er  the  rough  paths  by  a  brother's  firm  hand  ? 

If  so,  you  can  measure  the  depth  of  my  feeling 
For  one  whose  devotion  has  never  grown  dim, 

Nor  chide  the  wild  impulse  that  often  comes  stealing, 
When  gratitude  prompts,  to  do  homage  to  him. 

It  was  not  a  father,  a  sister,  a  mother, 

That  made  intercession  that  Mercy  might  win  ; 

Our  pardon  was  sealed  by  a  dear  "elder  brother," 
Who  gave  His  own  life  as  a  ransom  for  sin. 


THE   ELDER   BROTHER. 


39 


With  earth-love,  earth-memories  clinging  around  it, 
This  name  to  our  great  Mediator  was  given 

To  show  the  sweet  tie  of  affection  that  bound  it 
To  Him  who  still  pleads  our  forgiveness  in  heaven. 


MADELINE    BOWER. 

SHE  perished  in  beauty, 

As  withers  a  rose 
When  its  delicate  petals 

Begin  to  unclose. 
She  passed  from  among  us, 

And  left  us  to  pine 
For  the  treasure  we  could  not 

With  calmness  resign. 
The  light  of  our  borne 

Has  grown  dim  since  the  hour 
It  lost  the  dear  presence 

Of  Madeline  Bower. 

Her  voice  was  like  music 

That  trembles  along, 
When  the  last  strain  is  sung 

Of  a  soul-thrilling  song. 
So  witchingly  mellow, 

You'd  stand  by  her  side, 
And  drink  in  its  echo 

Long  after  it  died. 
40 


MADELINE  BOWER.  41 

Now  vainly  we  list 

At  the  still,  twilight  hour 
For  the  notes  of  our  song-bird — 

Lost  Madeline  Bower. 

Her  tresses  of  light 

Seemed  o'er  marble  to  flow, 
For  her  brow  could  have  rivaled 

The  purest  of  snow. 
Ah !  none  but  bereaved  ones, 

Who've  wept  o'er  the  clay, 
Can  know  of  our  pangs 

When  'twas  hidden  away. 
One  tress  from  its  sisters 

Was  severed  that  hour : 
'Twas  all  we  might  claim 

Of  sweet  Madeline  Bower. 

Oh,  would-  they  could  waft  us — 

Our  treasures  above — 
Some  tender  remembrance, 

Some  token  of  love, — 
A  mystical  sign 

That  they  do  not  forget ; 
A  blessed  assurance 

They  yearn  for  us  yet ! 
4* 


MADELINE  BOWER. 

Or  is  it  designed 

That  we  hear  not  nor  see 
One  trace  of  our  loved  ones 

Till  death  sets  us  free  ? 
Do  we  pass  through  the  vale, 

With  its  shadow  and  blight, 
That  the  glory  of  heaven 

May  burst  on  our  sight  ? 
If  so,  how  ecstatic, 

How  rapturous  the  hour 
Our  freed  souls  are  welcomed 

By  Madeline  Bower ! 


HOLD    THE     LIGHT. 

Ho  !  thou  traveler  on  life's  highway, 

Moving  carelessly  along ; 
Pausing  not  to  note  the  darkness 

Lowering  o'er  the  struggling  throng  ; 
Waiting  not  to  mark  how  feebly 

Some  are  laboring  in  the  fight, 
Bending  on  thee  wistful  glances, — 

Turn  aside,  and  hold  the  light ! 

Look  !  upon  thy  right  a  brother 

Wanders  blindly  from  the  way ; 
And  upon  thy  left  a  sister, 

Frail  and  erring,  turns  astray. 
One  kind  word,  perchance,  may  save  them, 

Guide  their  wayward  steps  aright ; 
Canst  thou,  then,  withhold  thy  counsel  ? 

No  !  but  fly,  and  hold  the  light ! 

Hark  !  a  feeble  wail  of  anguish 
Bursts  from  the  advancing  throng, 

43 


44 


HOLD    THE   LIGHT. 

And  a  little  child  is  groping 

Through  the  shadows  deep  and  long. 
'Tis  a  timid  orphan,  sinking 

'Neath  misfortune's  withering  blight ; 
Friends,  home,  love,  are  all  denied  her : 

Oh,  in  pity  hold  the  light  ! 

Not  alone  in  heathen  darkness, 

Where  the  pagan  bows  the  knee, 
Worshiping  his  senseless  image 

With  a  blind  idolatry, — 
Where  no  blessed  gospel  teachings 

E'er  illume  the  soul's  dark  night, 
Comes  the  cry  to  listless  mortals, 

Wild  and  pleading,  "  Hold  the  light !" 

Here  as  well,  in  life's  broad  highway, 

Are  benighted  wanderers  found  ; 
And  if  all  the  strong  would  aid  them, 

Lights  would  glimmer  all  around. 
Acts  of  love  and  deeds  of  kindness 

Then  would  make  our  pathway  bright, 
And  we'd  have  no  need  of  calling, 

"  Ho  !  thou  traveler,  hold  the  light !" 


A    TEMPERANCE    POEM. 

INSCRIBED   TO  THE   LADIES. 

MR.  LIONEL  LIGHTFOOT,  a  man,  you  must  know, 

Whose  life  had  been  upright  and  blameless, 
To  the  capital's  chamber  came  three  years  ago 

From  a  county  that  here  shall  be  nameless. 
He  was  loyal  at  heart,  but  all  tyranny  spurned, 

And,  when  comrades  endeavored  to  prove  him, 
Allegiance  to  Alcohol's  power  he  spurned,— 

Neither  jeers  nor  persuasions  could  move  him. 
Though  at  club-room  or  bar  they  would  oftentimes  meet, 

He  ne'er  treated,  nor  could  be  entreated  to  treat. 

And  now  'twas  mid-winter, — the  question  was  up 
To  legally  sanction  or  banish  the  cup. 
The  ladies  had  come,  with  their  beauty  and  grace, 
To  cheer  the  desponding  and  brighten  the  place. 
Discussions  grew  warm,  but  all  pleading  was  vain, 
For  Alcohol  triumphed,  and  Whisky  again 

45 


4 6  A. TEMPERANCE   POEM. 

Would  desolate  hearthstones, — bring  Want  and  Despair 
To  dear  ones  once  guarded  with  tenderest  care. 

And  Lightfoot  lamented, — his  mother's  calm  smile 
Seemed  resting  upon  him, — her  voice,  too,  the  while, 
Those  soft,  tender  tones  to  remembrance  so  dear, 
Sweet,  earnest,  and  true,  floated  back  to  his  ear: 
"  My  son,  if  they  sanction  this  blight  of  the  soul, 
Forget  not  my  teachings — beware  of  the  bowl !" 

The  day  had  departed,  the  twilight  had  fled, 

At  the  still  hour  of  midnight  the  Old  Year  lay  dead. 

The  breeze  sighed  its  requiem,  the  ocean  its  moan, 

For  the  aged  and  mighty  who  perished  alone; 

But  the  sun  of  the  morning  rose  fair  o'er  the  scene 

Where,  in  night's  fearful  silence,  the  death-pall  had  been. 

And  now  it  was  New  Year, — "a  happy  New  Year," — 

And  young  Lightfoot  were  guilty  of  treason 
If  he  failed  to  the  fair  ones  in  person  to  pay 

His  dues,  with  the  dues  of  the  season. 
So,  calling  on  Fairface,  an  exquisite  dandy, 
An  ardent  believer  in  spirits— of  brandy, 
He  found  him  perturbed — in  a  barbarous  passion, — 
His  moustache  had  been  trimmed  quite  too  close  for  the 
fashion ; 


A    TEMPERANCE  POEM.  47 

His  head,  too — oh,  shocking  to  add  to  the  list ! — 
Two  hairs  on  the  left  the  Macassar  had'  missed. 


But  Lightfoot  restored  him  :   "  The  former,"  he  said, 

"  Looked  so  foreign — distangiie "(a  beautiful  red 

He  fain  would  have  added,  but  paused,  lest  the  ire 
Of  his  comrade  might  set  his  adornment  on  fire.) 
Then,  waiting  till  Fairface  made  smooth  as  a  die 
For  the  fiftieth  time  his  "miwaculous  tie," 
With  assurance  his  collar  just  touched  his  goatee 
Without  varying,  in  distance,  the  slightest  degree, 
With  cane  between  gloves  of  invisible  green, 
They  called  on  Miss  Mabel — society's  queen ; 
And,  listening  the  while  to  the  lively  narrations 
Of  her  numerous  calls  and  her  morning  libations, 
"  Your  health  !"  cries  ma  belle  ;  returns  Lightfoot,  "  Ex 
cuse  me, 

I  never  indulge."     "  What !  on  New  Year's  refuse  me  J 
Politeness  demands  it;  beside"  (soft  and  low), 
"  Champagne  is  so  perfectly  harmless,  you  know." 

Ah,  woman,  fair  temptress,  thou  knew'st  not  the  while 
The  doom  that  was  sealed  by  that  innocent  smile; 
Or  how  fatal  the  spell  in  that  voice,  that  was  given 
To  lure  man  from  vice  and  direct  him  to  heaven. 


4S  A    TEMPERANCE  POEM. 

Thou  saw'st  not  the  phantoms  that  clutched  at  the  bowl, 
Nor  the  serpents  that  fastened  their  fangs  in  his  soul ; 
Thou  heardst  not  the  clank  of  the  chains  that  were  wound 
By  fiends  that  kept  mocking  the  spirit  they  bound. 

So  Lightfoot  was  tempted,  and  yielded  at  last, 

Beguiled  by  this  siren  of  beauty ; 
And,  quitting  her  presence,  he  carried  away 

Her  smile  of  approval  as  booty. 
A  dangerous  trophy,  these  smiles  of  the  fair ; 
They  melted  his  good  resolutions  to  air ; 
For  though  he  had  reasoned,  "I'll  only  partake 
This  once  of  the  wine,  for  the  fair  charmer's  sake," 
He  was  sadly  mistaken, — the  breach  had  been  made, 
The  fortress  surrendered,  its  inmates  betrayed  ; 
The  noble  resolves  that  had  guarded  the  tower 
Where  Faith  held  her  torch  in  temptation's  dark  hour, 
The  purposes  high  that  had  stamped  on  his  brow 
The  glory  of  manhood,  oh,  where  were  they  now? 

But  why  follow  on  with  the  twain  as  they  flit 

Fronrbower  to  bower,  partaking? 
Or  tell  how  the  feeble  resolves  of  the  one 

Were  seized  with  an  ague  of  shaking? 
How,  long  before  night-fall,  he  fancied  his  brain 
Was  dancing  a  reel  on  a  circular  plain  ? 


A    TEMPERANCE  POEM. 


49 


How  houses  inverted,  in  warlike  array, 

Wheeled  backward  and  forth  in  an  endless  chasse  ? 

We  pass  these  sad  pictures,  nor  linger  to  tell 

How,  step  after  step,  from  true  manhood  he  fell. 

How  at  first  he  took  naught  but  the  choicest  of  wine, — 

Some  ancient  Madeira,  or  rum  superfine ; 

How  he  drank  but  with  gentlemen,  such  as  would  deign 

To  touch  no  cheap  brandy  nor  third-rate  champagne. 

Behold  him,  at  last,  in  some  vice-crowded  den, 

Where  skulk  the  crouched  forms  of  what  once  ranked  as 

men; 
Where  the  pestilent   fumes  from  each  whisky-scorched 

throat 

The  pure  air  of  heaven  with  plague-spots  have  smote ; 
Where  Malice,  Pollution,  and  Wretchedness  teem, 
And  Guilt  stalks  among  them  to  mock  and  blaspheme. 
There  see  him,  the  victim  of  Woman's  soft  smile, 
Debauched  and  corrupted,  degraded   and  vile. 

Years  pass,  and  again  with  our  "pillars  of  State" 
Is  the  same  question  pending  in  earnest  debate ; 
The  fair  ones  are  listeners ;  Miss  Mabel  has  come 
To  hear  of  the  darkness  in  many  a  home, — 
Of  the  desolate  hearthstones  the  rum-fiend  has  made, 
Of  promises  broken  and  loved  ones  betrayed. 
c  5 


So  A    TEMPERANCE   POEM, 

She  listens — grows  weary — departing,  at  last, 
She  hastes  to  her  chamber  to  think  of  the  Past. 
Though  languid,  she  wooes  a  calm  slumber  in  vain, 
For  the  sleep  that  should  soothe  her  but  frenzies  her  brain. 

She  dreams — 'tis  of  Lightfoot :  she  tempts  him  to  drink. 
He  quaffs  at  her  bidding,  then  ceases  to  shrink 
From  frequent  indulgence  of  evils  the  worst; 
His  hopes  are  all  blasted,  his  life  is  accurst ; 
She  sees  him  descending  from  honor — renown — 
And  sinking  to  ruin — down — hopelessly  down. 
There,  wrestling  with  rum-fiends,  in  fury  he  raves, 
Like  a  soul  reft  of  reason,  on  life's  maddening  waves. 
Half  palsied  with  fright,  'mid  the  demons  he  stands, 
And  wards  off  their  blows  with  his  skeleton  hands. 
His  eyes  start  with  horror,  and  fearfully  gloat 
On  blades,  newly  whetted,  that  point  at  his  throat. 
He  shudders  and  cringes  from  serpents  that  hiss 
And  dart  their  forked  tongues  from  their  slimy  abyss ; 
And,  reeling  from  terror,  he  howls  in  his  pains, 
As  devils  incarnate  stand  welding  his  chains; 
While  one,  a  pale  imp,  the  grim  valet  of  Death, 
With  fagots  of  sulphur  is  firing  his  breath. 
O  horror  !  it  blazes  !  it  seethes  to  his  brain  ! 
His  heart-strings  have  cracked — the  blood  boils  in  each 
vein  ! 


A    TEMPERANCE   POEM.  51 

A  shudder — a  gasp — a  wild  effort  to  speak — 
And  Miss  Mabel  awakes  with  a  hideous  shriek. 


O  ladies  !  dear  ladies  !  when  next  round  the  wine 

Your  delicate  fingers  caressingly  twine, 

When,  like  a  soft  blessing,  the  breath  of  your  lips 

Floats  over  and  hallows  the  juice  ere  he  sips, 

Just  call  the  crouched  form  of  poor  Lightfoot  to  view, 

And  know  that  the  dream  of  Miss  Mabel  was  true. 

Then,  by  your  allurements,  teach  man  to  refrain, 

And  prove  that  your  charms  were  bestowed  not  in  vain  ; 

Let  your  spotless  example  illustrate  the  plan 

That  woman  was  made  as  a  help-meet  for  man, 

To  warn  him  from  treading  the  pathway  of  sin 

By  the  beautiful  love-light  that  glows  from  within. 

And,  oh !  as  ye  muse  on  that  Eden  above, 

Whence  spirits  departed  are  gazing  in  love, 

And  guarding  their  kindred,  who,  chained  by  the  clay, 

Are  prone  by  the  tempter  to  wander  astray, 

A  father's  fond  blessing  may  greet  you,  the  while, 

A  sister  bend  over  your  couch  with  a  smile, 

A  mother,  in  accents  of  rapturous  joy, 

May  sing  how  your  warnings  have  rescued  her  boy. 

Then  woman,  O  woman  !  thy  mission  fulfill ! 
Know  man  is  the  subject — the  slave  to  thy  will ! 


>  A    TEMPERANCE  POEM, 

Thou  wast  given  to  guide  him, — his  beacon  and  star 
To  cheer  when  beside  him  and  gleam  from  afar. 
Then  keep  thy  soul  white,  for  one  shadow  of  sin 
May  dim  the  bright  taper  that  burneth  within ; 
And  vain  are  his  struggles  life's  billows  above, 
When  the  beacon  goes  out  in  the  light-house  of  love. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

WILLIAM   G.,  ELDEST   SON    OF    W.    W.    BELKNAP,  SECRETARY 
OF  WAR. 

TOUCH  the  harp  with  gentlest  finger,  let  a  strain  of  ten- 
derest  feeling 

Pulsate   through   its   flowing    numbers,  all    its   sweetest 

chords  revealing. 

Let  the  tone   be   low  and    trembling,    as   if  seraphs 
hovered  nigh ; 

Music  such  as  floods  the  portal  of  the  clime  we  call  im 
mortal  : 

Such  as  soothed  his  deathless  spirit  when  he  closed  his 
weary  eye. 

At  the  dawning — in  the  morning — in  the  sunrise  of  his 

being, 
Ere  his  step  had  lost  its  lightness  or  his  eye  grew  dull  of 

seeing, 

Ere  his  sunny  brow  was  shadowed  by  earth's  sorrow 
or  its  gloom, 

5*  53 


54 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Ere  a  score  of  years  had  crowned  him,  thus  the  silent 

Reaper  found  him, 

Like  a  golden  bud  of  promise,  blighted  in  its  early 
bloom.    - 

It  was  meet  that  loving  faces  should,  in  silence,  gather 

near  him, 
And  that  kindred  hearts  should  murmur  blessings  as  they 

strove  to  cheer  him  ; 
Yet   their   yearnings  could   not   hold   him;    all   their 

pleading  cries  were  vain  ; 
And  the  blinding  tears  kept  starting  at  the  sacred  hour 

of  parting, 
For  this  cherished  household  treasure  that  no  longer 

might  remain. 

And  the  father,  bowed  and  stricken, — ah !  his  woe  was 

past  repeating 
When  the  hand  he  pressed  so  fondly  gave  no  more  an 

answering  greeting; 
When  no  loving  voice  came  trembling  from  the  cold 

lips  white  and  dumb. 
May  he  bow  in  true   submission,  musing  on  the  clime 

elysian, 
Where  the  angel  watcher  whispers  down  the  shining 

pathway,  "Come!" 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


55 


May  the  grass  grow  green  above  him,  resting  on  his  lowly 

pillow, 
And  in  quiet  sadness  o'er  him,  bend  the  constant,  pitying 

willow !  1 

May  soft   zephyrs  sing  low   dirges   as   they  pass   his 

narrow  bed  ! 

May  the  gently-falling  showers,  as  they  kiss  the  drooping 

'* 

flowers, 

Bid  them  bloom  and  shed  fresh  fragrance  on  the  turf 
above  his  head  ! 


JOSEY'S    BIRTHDAY. 


"  MAMMA,  tell  me  'bout  Good  Friday," 
Lisped* the  prattler  at  my  knee, 

With  his  sparkling  eyes  uplifted, 
Laughing  in  his  roguish  glee. 

"  Is't  a  pretty  story,  mamma? 

Won't  you  tell  it  right  away? 
Take  me  up,  I  want  to  hear  it, 

Then  I'll  run  along  and  play." 

But  I  could  not  tell  the  story 

As  the  solemn  dirges  fell, 
Tolling  through  the  day  that  darkened 

With  the  crucifixion  knell, — 

Could  not  tell  him  how  Redemption 

By  a  boundless  love  was  won, 
And  a  grand  Atonement  proffered 

Through  a  well-beloved  Son  ! 
56 


yOSEY'S  BIRTHDAY.  57 

So  I  said,  with  arms  around  him, 
"Yes,  'tis  good,  for  you  must  know 

That  a  little  blue-eyed  baby 
Came  to  me  four  yefars  ago. 

"Just  four  years  to-day,  my  darling, 
Since  you  oped  your  wondering  eyes, 

'Mid  the  solemn  hush  that  Nature 
Keeps  for  our  great  Sacrifice. 


"  Oh,  the  memories  that  clustered 
As  that  hallowed  day  wore  on  ! 

Little  heads  my  breast  had  pillowed, — 
Little  dimpled  arms  had  gone. 

"  Little  feet,  that  ran  to  meet  me, 
Lying  still  and  white  and  cold ; 

Little  eyes,  that  watched  my  coming, 
Hid  beneath  the  church-yard  mold  ! 

"  Then  when  vesper-hymns  outfloating 
Told  the  day  was  well-nigh  spent, 

'  Only  Son,'  the  singers  chanted, 
And  my  heart  responded,  Lent, 
c* 


58  JOSEY'S  BIRTHDAY. 

"Was  it  but  the  distant  shadow 
Of  His  sufferings — of  His  Cross — 

Made  me  fold  my  baby  closer, 
Shuddering  at  my  fancied  loss  ? 

"  Who  can  tell  ?  The  Father  knoweth  : 
Lent,  not  given,  are  all  that  come ; 

When  'tis  best  that  they  should  leave  us, 
He  will  gently  call  them  home. 

"But,  my  pet,  you  have  not  listened  ! 

Mamma's  boy  is  off  at  play  ! 
Thread  of  sunlight,  gleaming,  flashing, 

Through  this  sacred,  Hallowed  Day." 


A    WELCOME     TO     OUR     "JO." 

(MISS    KATE    PERRY,  OF    KEOKUK,  IOWA.) 

A  WELCOME  back  to  her  who  went 

Abroad  for  her  own  pleasure, 
Yet  generously  sent  her  friends 

An  overflowing  measure ! 
vVe  grasp  her  hand  with  right  good  will,  • 

While  memory  fondly  lingers 
Upon  the  pictures  sketched  for  "home" 

By  these  same  busy  fingers. 

The  Rhine,  in  all  its  winding  course, 

Ne'er  met  a  happier  rover, 
Nor  Drusus,  in  his  youthful  prime, 

A  more  adoring  lover. 
And  this  is  why  the  rippling  waves 

In  murmurs  seemed  to  bless  her, 
While  Drusus  reached  his  shadowy  arms, 

•  Imploring,  to  caress  her. 

I  wonder,  on  those  moonlit  nights, 
When  sky  and  stream  were  golden, 

59 


60  A    WELCOME    TO    OUR   "JO." 

As  she,  a  listener,  heard  entranced, 
Some  legend  tender — olden, — 

If  her  own  voice  went  floating  out 
With  all  its  wondrous  power, 

Awaking  many  an  echoing  tone 
At  thai"  entrancing  hour  ! 

Did  siren  with  the  golden  hair, 

On  distant  heights  appearing, 
Still  her  soft  notes  of  deep  despair 

And  give  attentive  hearing? 
Did  voyagers  on  passing  barks, 

Approaching  late  and  early, 
Drink  in  the  sweet,  bewildering  strains 

Of  our  own  matchless  Loreley  ? 

The  prayer  went  up  for  heavenly  care 

Through  storm  and  wave  to  bring  her, 
For  scores  of  hearts  have  learned  to  love 

Our  sweet  impassioned  singer. 
Her  life  has  proved,  in  war  and  peace, 

For  dear  ones  fondly  caring, 
"The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, 

The  loving  are  the  daring." 

Friends,  read  to  her  the  parable 
(She's  read  it  oft  unbidden) 


A    WELCOME    TO    OUR  "JO."  61 

Of  talents  graciously  bestowed, — 

Of  one,  too,  that  was  hidden. 
If  "good  and  faithful"  she  would  prove, 

Let  not  her  gifts  lie  sleeping; 
Let  Voice  and  Pen  improve  the  trust 

Confided  to  her  keeping. 


A    DIRGE    FOR    HORACE    GREELEY. 

WEEP,  weep,  O  my  country !  the  cord  has  been  severed 

That  bound  the  great  heart  of  a  statesman  to  thee ; 
The  spirit  has  fled  that  so  nobly  endeavored 

To  save  from  Disunion  the  land  of  the  Free. 
The  beautiful  rod  and  the  strong  staff  are  broken, 

A  gem  from  the  casket  of  glory  is  reft ; 
He  is  gone,  but  his  eloquent  words  as  a  token 

Of  genius  unrivaled  shall  ever  be  left. 

'Mid  the  storms  of  the  past,  though  the  billows  swept 
o'er  him, 

He  stood,  all  undaunted  by  tempest  or  tide  ; 
For  the  Nation,  his  idol,  lay  bleeding  before  him, 

And  he  sprang  to  his  duty  and  knelt  by  her  side. 
The  Union,  the  home  of  the  brave  and  true-hearted, 

Half  palsied  through  fear  by  War's  startling  command, 
With  white  arms  upraised,  all  her  courage  departed, 

In  silent  despair  gave  the  statesman  her  hand. 

• 

As  tender  as  brave,  with  a  patriot's  devotion, 

He  held  and  sustained  her  till  danger  was  past ; 
62 


A   DIRGE   FOR  HORACE    C  REE  LEY.  63 

With  whispers  of  cheer^hecked  the  rising  commotion,  . 

And  led  her,  unharmed,  to  a  haven  at  last. 
And  when  the  fierce  roar  of  the  battle  was  over, 

And  Peace  brooded  down  over  hill-side  and  plain, 
He  gathered  the  bands  we  thought  scattered  forever, 

And  tried,  with  firm  hand,  to  unite  them  again. 

The  boon  of  a  Nation  we  claimed  as  his  dower, — 

Of  her  he  had  struggled  so  nobly  to  save ; 
But  friends  turned  aside  at  the  hope-freighted  hour, 

And  freemen  bestowed  on  their  Greeley — a  grave. 
Yet  it  was  not  defeat, — he,  unmurmuring,  bore  it, 

Till  stung  by  the  venom  of  taunting  and  sneer; 
Then  shrank  his  great  heart  from  the  clutches  that  tore  it. 

While  mind  fell  a  victim  to  torturing  fear. 

Ah,  friends!  ye  should   learn  that  all   brave  hearts  aie 
tender ; 

That  heroes  stand  firm  'mid  the  clash  of  the  sword ; 
But  spirits  like  his  may  be  forced  to  surrender 

When  the  weapon  ye  use  is  a  low,  scathing  word. 
I  tell  you  'twere  kinder  if  blood  had  flowed  freely, 

Had  our  martyr  been  slain  by  an  enemy's  hand, 
Than  to  sting  him  to  madness, — to  offer  our  Greeley 

A  sacrifice  here,  in  his  own  native  land  ! 


64  A   DIRGE  FOR   HORACE    GREELEY. 

Yet  worth  cannot  die ;  and,  on  Tiistory's  pages, 

His  record  will  tell  what  he  dared  for  our  sake  ; 
And  proudly  reveal  to  the  oncoming  ages 

How  a  statesman  can  live  and  a  true  heart  can  break. 
Oh,  that  generous  heart !  it  was  full  to  o'erflowing 

When  the  wife  of  his  youth  and  his  country  were  there  ; 
But  the  one  had  passed  on,  and  the  other  was  going 

Far,  far  from  his  reach,  and  he  died  of  despair. 


LAKE    MICHIGAN. 

WRITTEN    DURING   THE   JUBILEE   AT   CHICAGO. 

WHILE  thousands  throng  each  crowded  mart, 

And  gaze  around  in  mute  surprise, 
I  turn  with  an  adoring  heart 

To  thee,  fair  mirror  of  the  skies. 
Yet  not  in  silence  can  I  pour 

My  full  heart  out,  fair  Lake,  to  thee, 
So,  humbly  kneeling  on  thy  shore, 

I  chant  thy  praise,  my  Jubilee. 

The  purple  clouds  are  all  drawn  back 

From  heaven's  blue  vault,  that  I  may  trace 
Its  distant  verge, — its  shining  track 

Held  to  thy  heart  in  close  embrace. 
The  roseate  flush  that  tinged  the  sky 

Has  slowly  turned  to  burnished  gold, 
And  every  wave  that  hurries  by 

Clasps  all  of  sunlight  it  can  hold. 

I  saw  thee  not,  Lake  Michigan, 
When  all  aglow — a  sheet  of  flame  ; 

6*  65 


66  LAKE   MICHIGAN. 

When  forth  the  frenzied  people  ran 
To  shriek  for  help — to  call  thy  name. 

Chicago,  thine  own  cherished  bride, 
Thou  mightst  not  succor — couldst  not  save ; 

But  fettered  lay  as  flames  spread  wide 
And  scooped  for  her  a  yawning  grave. 

The  loss  was  ours ;  we  mourned  with  thee 

That  she  should  fall, — a  nation  mourned; 
Nor  deemed  we  then  we  e'er  should  see 

Her  hopes  restored,  her  strength  returned. 
"Forever  lost,  forever  gone  !" 

Came  through  thy  murmuring  wavelets'  swell ; 
"  Forever  lost,  forever  gone  !" 

We  echoed  back, — her  funeral  knell. 

Yet  now,  so  soon,  a  wondering  throng 

Crowd  to  thy  shore  in  husked  surprise, 
And  there  behold  (grand  theme  for  song) 

Chicago,  Phcenix-like,  arise. 
A  world  lamented  when  she  fell, 

And  now,  'neath  turret,  tower,  and  dome, 
A  multitude  of  voices  tell 

Her  year  of  Jubilee  has  come. 

Chicago,  City  of  the  Lake, 
Bride  of  this  lovely  inland  sea, 


LAKE  MICHIGAN.  67 

Thy  resurrection-glories  wake 

A  dream  of  what  thou  yet  shalt  be. 
Undaunted  in  thy  darkest  hour, 

Thyself  hast  brought  the  awakening  dawn ; 
Thy  energy  has  been  the  power 

That  led,  and  still  shall  lead  thee  on. 


THE    SHADOWS    ON    THE    WALL. 

FEVER  sapped  my  very  life-blood,  frenzy  fired  my  tortured 
brain, 

And  the  friends  who  watched  beside  me,  felt  their  linger 
ing  hopes  were  vain. 

I  was  going — going  from  them,  all  unconscious  of  their 
fears ; 

Hastening  to  the  Silent  Valley,  deaf  to  moans  and  blind 
to  tears. 

But  a  change  was  wrought  at  midnight — the  destroyer's 
hand  was  stayed, 

And  the  frenzy  and  the  fever  fled,  affrighted  and  dis 
mayed. 

And  the  dear  ones  who  had  trembled  as  I  neared  the 
mystic  goal, 

Spoke  in  glad,  rejoicing  whispers  as  light  slumber  held 
control ; 

All,   save  one,   the   youngest — fairest — gentle   friend  of 
other  years, 

Who  knelt  reverently  beside  me,  and  returned  her  thanks 

with  tears. 
68 


THE  SHADOWS   ON  THE    WALL.  69 

Since  the  sunny  days  of  childhood  we  had  known  each 

other  well, 
And  each  fleeting  year  we  numbered  but  increased  love's 

magic  spell ; 
But,  till  sickness  felled  me,  never  did  her  acts  of  love 

divine 
Seem  to  drop,  like  gems  unnumbered,  from  a  great  ex- 

haustless  mine. 
With  a  sister's  sweet  devotion  would  her  young  head  o'er 

me  bow, 
As  she  bathed  my  cheeks  with  kissels,  and  with  tear-drops 

dewed  my  brow, 
Like  a  fond  and  gentle  mother  on  her  bosom  lay  my 

head, 
And,  in  soft,  endearing  accents,  speak  of  happy  hours 

long  fled. 


When  the  dreadful  dream  was  ended,  when  delirium's 
spell  was  broke, 

When,  with  all  an  infant's  weakness,  I  to  consciousness 
awoke, 

I  could  see  the  form  of  Emma  round  my  darkened  cham 
ber  glide, 

And  could  hear  her  sweet  voice  breathing  soothing  whis 
pers  by  my  side. 


70  THE   SHADOWS   ON  THE    WALL. 

Not  till  stars  were  shining  brightly  in  the  blue  sky  over 
head 

Would  she  leave  me  to  my  slumbers  with  a  Sibyl's  noise 
less  tread, 

Then,  within  the  room  adjoining,  sat  she  with  attentive 
ear, 

Ready,  at  the  slightest  murmur,  at  my  bedside  to  ap 
pear. 


Well,  one  eve  my  eye.  had  wandered  from  the  bright  and 

cheerful  light 
That  came  streaming  through  the  doorway,  to  the  wall  so 

smooth  and  white, 
When  methought  I  heard  a  footfall  ('twas  not  Emma's,  I 

was  sure) 
Stepping  lightly  through  the  hall  and  pausing  at  the  inner 

door. 
It  was  opened — oh,  so  softly  I  could  scarcely  hear  the 

sound ; 
Had  a  human  hand  unclosed  it,  or  were  spirits  stalking 

round  ? 
While  I  looked  and  thought  and  wondered,  lo !  there 

glided  from  the  hall, 
With  a  stealthy  tread,  a  shadow,  and  stood  waiting  on 

the  wall. 


THE  SHADOWS   ON  THE    WALL.  71 

'Twas  as  handsome  as  the  "photos"  done  by  Emerson 
last  week ; 

Its  two  lips  were  slightly  parted,  as  though  just  about  to 
speak ; 

And  its  eyes — I  lost  their  color  with  their  most  bewitch 
ing  flash, 

Yet  I  saw  it  sported  whiskers  and  a  slightly-curled  mous 
tache  ; 

Then  its  nose  was  sharp  and  classic, — it  was  finely  built 
and  tall, 

And  a  full  round  chin  and  forehead  had  this  shadow  on 
the  wall. 


Quick  before  my  wondering  vision  did  a  second  shadow 

glide; 
It  excelled  the  air  in  fleetness  till  it  reached  the  other's 

side. 
Ah  !  full  well  that  face,  that  figure,  and  those  graceful 

curls  were  known, 
For,  with  sportive  pencil,  oft  had  I  the  self-same  outline 

drawn. 
And,  so  great  was  my  amazement,  I  my  voice  could  scarce 

suppress 
When  I  saw  these  phantom  figures  meeting  with  a  warm 

caress ; 


•J2  THE   SHADOWS   ON  THE    WALL. 

And — my  memory  here  grows  faithless — I  can  only  just 

recall 
That  I  saw  four  lips  of  shadow  meet  upon  the  pictured 

wall. 


When  the  pantomime  was  ended,  I  grew  restless  from  sur 
prise,  . 
And,  remembering  not  my  weakness,  I  in  vain  essayed 

to  rise ; 
But  the  shadows  heard  my  movement,  and  they  fled  before 

my  gaze 
With   the  swiftness   of  the   lightning,    choosing   wisely 

different  ways; 
And  when,  in  a  moment  after,  bent  a  fair  face  o'er  my 

bed, 
Eyes  were  closed  and  breast  was  heaving:    "Sleeping 

sweetly,"  Emma  said ; 
Never  dreamed  she  that  the  sleeper  had  been  witness  to 

it  all, 
Or,  more  truly,  to  the  tableau  of  the  shadows  on  the  wall. 


Often  have  I  seen  the  substance  of  the  shadow  first  since 

then, 
And  no  nobler  heart  is  numbered  in  the  family  of  men. 


7~HE  SHADOWS   ON  THE    WALL.  73 

He  is  worthy  of  his  Emma,  who,  now  standing  by  his 

side, 
Does  not  note  his  beaming  glance  of  mingled  tenderness 

and  pride. 
With  one  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and 'the  other  clasped 

in  mine, 
She's  been  coaxing  for  a  poem  about  "  Charles  and  Em- 

meline;" 
And  I've  quickly  snatched  my  pencil  for  the  first  time  to 

recall 
To  the  twain  the  summer's  eve  I  saw  the  shadows  on  the 

wall. 


LINES 

AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED  TO  MY  FATHER'S  FRIEND,  HON. 
D.   F.  MILLER. 

DEAR  friend,  'twas  not  thy  word  of  praise, 
Bestowed  upon  my  simple  lays, 
That  woke,  as  if  by  magic  art, 
A  thrill  responsive  in  my  heart. 
'Twas  the  fond  mention  of  a  word 
That  all  my  tenderest  feelings  stirred, — 
A  name  the  Past  endeared  to  thee, 
And  fraught  with  love  and  trust  to  me. 

His  step,  his  touch,  his  vanished  tone 
Seem  mingling  often  with  thine  own. 
The  teacher,  as  in  days  of  yore, 
Repeats  his  sage  instructions  o'er; 
The  pupil,  in  the  flush  of  youth, 
Lists  to  those  golden  words  of  truth, 
And  dreams  such  dreams  as  manhood  may 
When  proud  ambition  points  his  way. 
74 


LINES.  75 

Ah  !  neither  then  had  locks  of  white  ! 
He,  on  life's  grand  meridian  height, 
Thou,  with  thy  powers  as  yet  untried, 
And  I  a  prattler  at  thy  side. 
It  seems  so  strange  to  see  thee  now 
With  frosts  of  age  upon  thy  brow, 
Yet  sweet  to  know  thy  love  for  him 
Has  never  faltered  nor  grown  dim. 

How  much  they  gain  of  heavenly  lore, 
Our  loved  and  lost  who  "go  before"  ! 
The  jasper  walls  will  brighter  glow 
When  from  them  lean  the  forms  we  know. 
Our  foretaste  of  celestial  bliss 
Will  be  a  welcoming  clasp  and  kiss; 
Our  recompense  for  every  pain 
Will  be  this  "gathering  home"  again. 

And  wilt  thou  not  hold  converse  sweet 
Where  constant  friends  their  vows  repeat? 
Where  change  can  mar,  nor  time  can  dim, 
Wilt  thou  not  learn  again  of  him? 
With  the  deep  mystery  of  the  skies 
Unveiled  before  thy  wondering  eyes, 
What  guide  more  meet,  if  choice  be  given, 
To  lead  thee  to  the  highest  heaven? 


WHAT    ARE    THE    SNOW-FLAKES? 

SAY,  whence  come  the  snow-flakes — the  pure,  fleecy  snow- 
flakes, 

That  flutter  so  softly,  so  tremblingly  by? 
Are  they  foam  from  the  ocean  of  ether  above  us, 

Or  petals  from  roses  that  blow  in  the  sky  ? 
Do  seraphs  who  wander  beside  the  still  waters, 

Or  linger,  entranced,  in  fair  bowers  above, 
Keep  culling  the  leaves  of  the  blossoms  around  them 

To  scatter  them  earthward  as  tokens  of  love? 

Are  they  down,  that  the  beautiful  Angel  of  Summer, 

At  parting,  so  noiselessly  shakes  from  her  wings? 
Or  heralds  sent  forth  by  the  glittering  Frost-King 

To  tell  of  the  jewels  he  lavishly  brings? 
Oh  !  I  sometimes  half  dream,  as  I  watch  the  flakes  falling, 

That  'tis  Purity's  self  gliding  down  from  the  skies, 
Till,  meeting  our  earth-damps  of  sin  and  pollution, 

They  melt  her  to  tears  and  of  pity  she  dies. 

76 


THE     BABY. 

ALL  this  blessed  summer  morning, 
With  the  golden  sunlight  round  me, 
Has  my  heart  bowed  down,  o'erburdened 

With  its  mournful  tenderness, — 
With  this  longing  for  the  baby 
That  for  weary  months  has  bound  me, 
For  the  look  her  blue  eyes  gave  me, 

And  her  winning,  fond  caress. 

I  have  heard  some  grief  is  deeper: 
That  of  mourning  ones  still  yearning 
For  the  brave  hearts  stilled  forever 

'Mid  the  clash  of  war's  alarms, 
But  I  know  no  sadder  picture 
Than  fond  memory,  slowly  turning 
From  the  past,  to  gaze  in  silence 

On  a  mother's  empty  arms. 

Oh,  they  told  me,  those  who  knew  not, 
That  I  would  not  miss  her  ever, — 
Would  not  always  start  expectant 

7*  77 


7 8  THE  BABY. 

At  the  mention  of  her  name  ; 
But  as  many  moons  have  vanished 
Since  the  Father  bade  us  sever, 
As  her  brief  existence  numbered, 

And  the  void  seems  just  the  same. 

Often,  as  the  night  advanceth, 
From  my  troubled  sleep  upstarting, 
Am  I  roused  by  what  seem  echoes 

Of  my  baby's  plaintive  cry. 
And  I  catch  familiar  accents 
From  my  trembling  lips  departing, — 
Whispers  of  some  name  endearing, 

Or  some  soothing  lullaby. 

And  my  spirit  sinks  when  fadeth 
This,  my  slumber's  bright  creating, 
Till  Faith  breathes,  "  Her  fleeting  life 

Was  but  a  glimpse  of  heaven  to  thee. 
There  in  changeless,  endless  beauty 
Is  thy  angel  babe  awaiting 
To  be  folded  to  thy  bosom 

Through  a  long  eternity." 

So  I  gaze  off  with  the  dawning, 

To  where  day  in  light  is  breaking, — 

Where  the  white  gleam  of  the  marble 


THE  BABY. 

Tells  me  some  death's  waves  have  crossed  ; 
And  I  muse,  without  a  shudder, 
On  that  sleep  that  hath  no  waking, 
For  I  know  it  must  o'ertake  me 

Ere  I  see  the  loved  and  lost. 

Oh,  I  trust  they'll  lay  my  ashes 
Close  beside  this  faded  blossom  ! 
Would  my  arms  might  twine  around  her, 

And  her  lips  to  mine  be  pressed  ! 
"Twere  so  sweet  to  think  the  casket 
Might  be  folded  to  my  bosom, 
That  our  dust  might  not  be  parted 

In  that  deep,  unbroken  rest ! 


79 


OCTOBER. 

HAVE  you  seen  a  gentle  maiden 

Flitting  down  your  forest  aisles, 
With  her  shining  tresses  flowing, 

And  her  red  lips  wreathed  with  smiles  ? 
With  the  golden  leaves  of  autumn 

Round  her  white  brow  lightly  pressed, 
And  its  modest  crimson  berries 

Blushing  on  her  virgin  breast? 

Have  you  heard  her  breezy  footfalls 

Trembling  through  the  rustling  grass? 
Have  you  caught  her  mellow  whispers 

To  the  song-birds  as  they  pass  ? 
Have  you  marked  the  wondrous  brightness 

Beaming  from  her  tender  eye, 
When  the  rippling  streamlets  murmured 

Blessings  as  she  glided  by  ? 

Yes,  you've  seen  her,  fair  October: 

Since  she  sought  your  forest  aisles, 
So 


OCTOBER.  8 1 

She  has  lightened  hill  and  valley 

With  the  glory  of  her  smiles. 
She  has  crossed  your  babbling  river, 

Lingered  on  your  wild-flower  track, 
Until  now  the  gates  of  cloud-land 

Softly  ope  to  woo  her  back. 

She  has  floated,  floated  upward, 

Over  meadow,  stream,  and  wood, 
Till  her  golden  hair  is  dabbled 

In  the  sunset's  crimson  blood. 
She  has  breathed  her  latest  blessing, 

She  has  wrought  her  parting  spell ; 
Waning  autumn's  benediction, — 

Sweet  October,  fare  thee  well ! 


D* 


MY    MOTHER'S    FRIEND. 


You  wondered  why  my  fingers  clasped 

So  lovingly  that  withered  hand  ; 
The  tenderness  that  filled  my  heart 

You  saw,  yet  could  not  understand. 
Yet  will  the  mystery  be  explained  : 

My  impulse  you  will  comprehend 
When  you  are  told  that  aged  one 

Was,  in  her  youth,  my  mother's  friend. 

Those  snowy  locks  in  other  years 

Luxuriant  hung,  in  graceful  curls 
Perchance,  and  oft  touched  mother's  cheek 

With  soft  caress,  when  both  were  girls. 
That  breath  commingled  with  her  own, 

As  the  young  head  would  trusting  bend, 
To  tell,  in  low,  confiding  tone, 

Her  secrets  to  her  early  friend. 

With  such  a  bitter,  aching  void 

As  life  must  hold  when  mothers  go, 
82 


MY  MOTHER'S  FRIEND.  83 

No  matter  when, — if  full  of  years, 
Or  in  their  noontide's  golden  glow, 

It  is  not  strange  my  weary  heart 

Should  long  to  feel  those  arms  descend 

And  fold  in  motherly  embrace 
The  daughter  of  her  early  friend. 

I  wonder  if  the  mists  of  years 

Melt  in  the  radiance  of  the  skies? 
Will  heaven  restore  our  faded  bloom, 

And  youth  return  in  Paradise? 
Do  blighted  hopes  and  vanished  joys 

Revive,  return  when  earth's  dreams  end  ? 
If  so,  what  glad  surprise  awaits, 

Beyond  the  blue,  my  mother's  friend  ! 

Oh,  peaceful  be  her  closing  hour, 

And  soothing  the  familiar  tone 
That  bids  her  deathless  spirit  rise 

Where  weight  of  years  is  all  unknown ! 
May  the  same  hand  that  points  her  way 

Clasp  mine  when  life  and  care  shall  end, 
And  bear  me  to  the  shining  shore, 

To  join  my  mother's  early  friend ! 


THEY    SPOKE    IN    WHISPERS. 

THEY  spoke  in  whispers ;  it  was  not 

Because  a  crowd  was  nigh, 
For  all  alone  they  breathed  each  thought 

Beneath  a  moonlit  sky. 
That  stilly  hour  but  nursed  the  flame 

That  o'er  their  spirits  swept; 
And  Nature,  hallowed  by  the  same, 

A  sacred  silence  kept. 

They  spoke  in  whispers;  was't  because 

They  feared  the  birds  might  hear  ? 
Or  that  the  light-winged  breeze  might  pause 

And  bend  a  listening  ear? 
Or  that  the  sweet  wild-flowers,  which  stood 

So  near,  in  listening  crowds, 
Might  snatch  their  secret, — that  the  dew 

Might  tell  it  to  the  clouds  ? 

Or  did  they  fear  the  fair  young  moon 

Might  ope  her  silver  bars, 
84 


THEY  SPOKE  IN  WHISPERS.  85 

To  let  the  echo  of  each  word 

Glide  upward  to  the  stars? 
Or  that  the  ripples  of  the  stream 

That  kissed  that  quiet  shore 
Might  catch  their  vows,  and  to  the  waves 

Repeat  the  story  o'er? 

Or  did  they  dream  the  heavens  would  speak 

Through  countless  starry  eyes, 
Bent  downward  on  each  love-lit  cheek 

In  tremulous  surprise  ? 
I  cannot  tell,  but  only  know 

That  earth  and  air  and  sky 
Seemed  conscious  of  the  rapturous  thrill 

That  marked  each  fond  reply. 

Soft  grew  their  whispers;  gently  moved 

Her  crimson  lips  apart, 
As  if  to  drink  the  waves  of  love 

That  rippled  from  his  heart. 
Then  nearer  stole  the  envious  breeze, 

To  share  that  whispered  tone  ; 
Too  late — 'twas  hushed — their  souls  had  learned 

A  language  all  their  own. 


ONLY    LENT. 

MORNING'S  hush  was  all  around  me, 

Silence  brooded  everywhere, 
When  the  early  dawning  found  me 

Bowed  and  crushed  by  wild  despair  ; 
For  my  eldest-born  before  me 

Prostrate  lay  with  faltering  breath, 
And  the  shudder  that  stole  o'er  me 

Seemed  the  icy  touch  of  death. 
Then  the  solemn  hush  was  broken, 

Tones  from  distant  bells  were  blent. 
When  Tasked,  "What  means  this  token?" 

I  was  answered,  "Only  Lent." 

Only  Lent !  To  fastings  holy, 

Soon  to  end  at  Easter-tide, 
They  referred,  while  I  bent  lowly 

O'er  the  blossom  at  my  side. 
Tender  plant,  whose  love  had  lighted 

Days  of  toil  and  nights  of  gloom ; 
But  whose  buds  of  hope  were  blighted, 

Blighted  in  their  early  bloom. 
86 


ONLY  LENT.  87 

Ten  short  years  to  bless  and  cheer  me 

Had  this  April  flower  been  sent ; 
Ten  short  springs  to  blossom  near  me, 

Then  to  wither.     Only  lent. 

Heavier  seemed  my  cross  unto  me 

Than  before  was  ever  borne, 
When  she  whispered  that  she  knew  me 

As  I  wept  that  sacred  morn. 
I  forgot  Who  once  hung  bleeding 

While  this  Day  was  wrapped  in  gloom  ; 
For  our  ransom  interceding, 

Bearing  thus  the  sinner's  doom  ; 
And  my  soul  cried  out  in  sorrow 

For  the  deep  affliction  sent, 
Murmuring,  "  He  may  claim  to-morrow 

Her  whose  life  is  only  lent." 

But  the  morrow  came  and  ended, 

And  another  dawned  and  sped ; 
Then  the  morn  when  He  ascended — 

Rose  in  triumph  from  the  dead, 
Crowned  with  resurrection  glory; 

Gladly  rang  the  matin  bells, 
Pealing  forth  the  wondrous  story 

Through  our  plains  and  woods  and  dells. 


ONL  Y  LENT. 

Then  the  sweet,  pale  face  beside  me 
Whiter  grew  by  suffering  spent; 

Joy  without,  but  hope  denied  me: 
She,  I  knew,  was  only  lent. 

Days  since  then  I've  sadly  numbered  ; 

Twelve  young  moons  have  come  and  gone, 
And  her  precious  form  has  slumbered, — 

Cold  and  still  has  slumbered  on. 
But  her  deathless  soul  ascended 

To  a  loving  Saviour's  side, 
Where,  with  angel  voices  blended, 

Hers  will  chant  at  Easter-tide. 
When  I  know  her  joyous  spirit, 

Resting  thus  in  sweet  content, 
All  heaven's  transports  may  inherit, 

Should  I  grieve,  though  only  lent  ? 

Once  again  through  tears  I  hearkened 

To  the  deep-toned  bells  that  rang, 
Heralding  the  day  that  darkened 

'Neath  the  crucifixion  pang. 
Then  the  angel  of  Bestowment, 

Pitying  my  lonely  hours, 
Bent  above  my  couch  a  moment 

With  a  bud  from  Eden  bowers; 


ONL  Y  LENT.  89 

As  it  touched  my  yearning  bosom, 
Life  and  hope  and  joy  seemed  sent 

To  enfold  the  tender  blossom, 
Given  perhaps ;  perhaps  but  lent ! 

Last  year's  crucifixion  morning 

Held  for  me  a  heavy  cross ; 
For  'twas  then  I  heard  the  warning 

Of  my  near  approaching  loss; 
Now  again  its  dawn  is  over, 

Prayers  and  matins  all  are  said, 
And  an  angel  seems  to  hover, 

Breathing  blessings  on  my  head. 
Hark  !  she  whispers,  "  I  am  near  thee; 

Let  not  life  in  gloom  be  spent, 
Let  this  blossom  soothe  and  cheer  thee; 

Christ  himself  was  only  lent. ' ' 


ESTO     PERPETUA. 

DEDICATED  TO  THE  STUDENTS  OF  THE  COLLEGE  OF  PHY 
SICIANS  AND  SURGEONS,  AT  KEOKUK,  IOWA,  CLASSES  OF 
1875-76. 

STUDENTS  !  as  again  ye  gather 

Where  your  feet  have  trod  before, 
Ope  your  minds  to  Wisdom's  teachings, 

Drink  them  in  and  thirst  for  more  ! 
In  your  Alma  Mater's  shadow 

Sages,  men  of  learning,  wait, 
Ready,  with  the  keys  of  Science, 

To  unlock  her  golden  gate. 

Those  who  dwell  in  mountain-passes, 

Narrowed  in  by  rock  and  vale, 
Strive,  and  serve  an  humble  purpose, 

Make  their  little  lives  avail. 
But,  with  prairies  circling  round  you, 

Stretching  beyond  human  ken, 
And  this  grand  old  river  near  you, 

Need  ye  rank  as  common  men  ? 
90 


ESTO  PERPETUA. 

Why,  it  seems  such  thoughts  should  thrill  you 

As  would  leap  their  prison-bars, 
Mounting,  eagle-plumed,  above  you, 

Till  they  almost  touched  the  stars  ! 
Vastness,  richness,  boundless  beauty 

Urge  you  up  to  loftiest  height ; 
Rouse  you  to  prolonged  endeavor, — 

Nerve  you  for  Life's  coming  fight. 

Be  ye  watchful,  patient,  gentle, 

Quick  to  soothe  and  strong  to  bear ; 
For  the  healing  of  the  nation 

Is  confided  to  your  care. 
Let  your  tones  be  glad  and  hopeful 

If  new  life  ye  would  impart ; 
Let  your  cheering  smiles  of  greeting 

Fall,  like  sunlight,  on  the  heart. 

Oh,  be  firm  as  rocks  of  granite 

When  temptations  bar  your  way  ! 
Let  not  vice,  with  its  allurements, 

Turn  your  steadfast  steps  astray. 
Pure  should  be  the  man  who  waiteth 

Where  a  spirit's  bonds  are  riven, 
And  the  freed  soul,  angel-guided, 

Wings  its  way  to  home  and  heaven. 


EDA. 

AGED   THIRTY-THREE   YEARS. 

ONE  sweet,  consoling  thought  comes  to  me  as  I  write : 
Her  deathless  spirit,  snowy-winged,  is  nearer  us  to-night 
Than  when  it  dwelt  below,  imprisoned  by  the  clay, 
Longing  to  join  the   yearning  group  that  mourned  its 
lengthened  stay. 

For  heaven  is  not  so  far  that  loved  ones  may  not  find 
The  shadowed  homes  and  longing  hearts  of  those  they 

left  behind ; 

They  rest  a  little  while  by  Eden's  placid  streams, 
And  then  glide  back,  on  noiseless  wings,  to  soothe  us  in 

our  dreams. 

Not  vanished  from  our  sight, — no,  no,  not  gone  to  stay  ! 
Her  touch — her  smile — her  gentle  tone  can  never  pass 

away; 

The  twilight  brings  again  a  wealth  of  sunny  hair, — 
A  brow  of  white,  a  hand,  a  voice  that  points  and  whispers, 

"There." 
92 


EDA. 


93 


We  know  that  she  will  wait,  nor  seek  the  furthest  skies, 
Until  there  is  a  gathering  in  of  all  earth's  broken  ties; 
The  eldest-born — the  first  to  cross  death's  mystic  tide, 
And  first  to  greet,  with  welcoming  clasp,  upon  the  other 
side. 

Be  our  lives  as  pure,  as  free  from  stain  or  sin, 

As  the  white  soul  that  heard  His  call  and  softly  floated 

in; 

And  if  'tis  ours  to  choose  what  recompense  be  given 
For  every  pang,  we  only  ask  to  share  our  darling's  heaven. 


MAMMA'S     VALENTINE. 

"MAMMA  !"  cried  a  roguish  elf, 
Snatching  kisses  for  himself, 
Standing,  tiptoe,  by  my  side 
With  a  look  of  boyish  pride, 
"  See  how  tall !     If  you'll  be  mine, 
/  will  be  your  Valentine." 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  so  you  may ; 
Whisper  low  what  you  would  say ; 
Breathe  it  soft,  in  tenderest  tone, 
Vow  to  live  for  me  alone ; 
Learn,  in  time,  that  love  in  part 
Never  holds  a  woman's  heart." 

"  When  I  grow  to  be  a  man 
Mayn't  I  love  you  all  I  can  ? 
Is  it  silly,  mamma,  say, 
When  I  kiss  you  this-a-way  ? 
Ain't  I  yours,  and  ain't  you  mine? 
And  don't  that  mean  Valentine?" 
94 


MAMMA'S    VALENTINE.  95 

"Yes,  my  sweet, — you  understand, — 
Lip  to  lip,  and  hand  in  hand ; 
Heart  that  wakes  an  answering  thrill, 
Soul  to  soul  responsive  still ; 
All  thine  own,  as  thou  art  mine, 
Dearest,  truest,  Valentine." 


NELLY'S    STORY. 

IT  was  on  a  lovely  evening 

In  the  merry  month  of  June, 
That  we  sailed  upon  the  waters  clear, 

Beneath  the  rising  moon. 
We  had  often  sat  together  thus, 

Young  Lawrence  Grey  and  I, 
And  watched  the  Night-Queen  rolling 

Through  her  kingdom  in  the  sky. 

He  spoke  as  he  was  wont  to  speak, 

In  whispers  soft  and  low, 
Of  moonlit  skies  and  slumbering  flowers, 

And  wavelets'  murmuring  flow. 
In  vain  I  listened  for  the  words 

I  longed  to  hear  him  say ; 
He  breathed  them  not, — my  heart  was  sad,- 

I  loved  young  Lawrence  Grey. 

Long  had  I  known  him ;  oft  had  sat 

Within  the  leafy  grove, 
96 


NELLY'S  STORY, 

And  hoped  to  hear  him  whisper  low 

An  earnest  tale  of  love ; 
Or  stood,  expectant,  by  his  side, 

At  twilight's  stilly  hour, 
And  felt  across  my  senses  steal 

A  spell  of  wondrous  power. 

But  Hope,  the  siren,  from  my  heart 

Had  well-nigh  ta'en  her  flight ; 
And  dark  despair  sat  brooding  there 

Upon  that  summer's  night. 
And  when,  at  last,  a  sacred  hush 

Fell  upon  wood  and  stream, 
My  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  past, 

While  Lawrence  seemed  to  dream. 

I  touched  the  water  with  my  hand, 

And  tried  to  catch  each  gem 
That,  with  the  moonbeams,  formed  a  gay, 

A  sparkling  diadem. 
A  sudden  fancy  seized  my  brain, — 

"  Suspense  is  worse  than  death; 
'Twill  test  his  love  to  run  the  risk, — 

I  can  but  lose  my  breath." 

One  parting  glance  was  all  I  gave  ; 
But  he  beheld  me  not, 
9 


97 


98  NELLY'S  STORY. 

So  closely  were  his  senses  bound 
By  deep,  unfathomed  thought. 

"  Forgive  me,  Heaven  !"  I  softly  said  ; 
"  Now  love  or  death  must  win  !" 

And,  with  the  words,  the  skiff  upset, 
And  I — I  tumbled  in. 

One  moment  dark  dismay  became 

A  tenant  of  my  breast; 
Another,  every  doubt  gave  way, — 

All  fear  was  lulled  to  rest. 
A  strong  arm  bore  me  to  the  shore, 

Upheld  my  sinking  form, 
While  tear-drops  fell  upon  my  cheeks 

All  fresh  and  bright  and  warm. 

"  Gone,  almost  gone  !"  he  wildly  said, 

And  smoothed  my  dripping  hair  ; 
Then  pressed  his  lips  upon  my  own, 

And  left  love's  signet  there. 
A  'wildering  bliss,  an  untold  joy, 

Across  my  being  stole  ; 
And  eyelids,  that  till  then  were  closed, 

No  longer  brooked  control. 

"  Lawrence  !"  I  slowly,  feebly  said, — 
A  flush  suffused  his  cheek ; 


NELLY'S  STORY. 

Then,  quick,  he  told  me  all  his  lips 

Had  long  refused  to  speak: 
He  said  he  worshiped — he  adored  ; 

If  I  would  be  his  own, 
Henceforth  his  aim  in  life  should  be 

My  happiness  alone. 

What  answered  I  ?     Ask  of  the  moon, 

That  now,  all  radiant,  shone; 
Or  of  the  still,  pale  stars  beyond, 

That  tremblingly  looked  on. 
I've  tried  a  thousand  times  to  think, 

But  tried,  alas!  in  vain  ; 
Those  words  escaped  from  Memory's  chart, 

And  ne'er  came  back  again. 

'Twas  not  till  many  years  had  fled 

With  many  joys  away, 
And  I  had  long  been  known  to  friends 

As  "sober  Nelly  Grey," 
That  I  could  venture  to  confess, 

To  him  who  used  to  dream, 
That  it  was  not  an  accident — 

My  falling  in  the  stream. 

He  scarce  believed  me  when  I  said 
/made  the  skiff  capsize; 


99 


ioo  NELLY'S  STORY. 

Or  that  I  heard  the  words  he  spoke 

Before  I  oped  my  eyes. 
He  smiled,  though,  when  he  heard  me  say, 

"  If  I  were  young  once  more, 
And  loved  and  doubted,  I  would  act — 

Just  as  I  did  before. ' ' 


I'LL    MEET    THEE    ALONE. 

WHEN  morn's  rose-light  lingers 

On  love's  hallowed  bowers, 
And  zephyr's  light  fingers 

Awaken  the  flowers ; 
When  echo,  repeating 

Each  bird's  gladsome  tone, 
Makes  joyous  our  hearts,  love, 

I'll  meet  thee  alone! 

When  Day's  course  is  ended, 

And,  from  heaven's  high  spars, 
By  angels  suspended 

And  fastened  by  stars, 
Hangs  twilight's  soft  curtain, 

O'er  earth's  bosom  thrown, 
I'll  hide  'neath  this  veil,  love, 

And  meet  thee  alone  ! 

When  Luna's  soft  glances 
Illumine  the  night, 

9*  101 


102  PLL   MEET  THEE  ALONE. 

When,  as  she  advances, 
The  stars  steal  from  sight ; 

When  mortals  are  dreaming 
Of  sweet  moments  flown, 

I'll  hasten  away,  love, 
And  meet  thee  alone  ! 

Then  to  our  soul's  vision, 

In  rose-tinted  dyes, 
Like  some  fair  elysian, 

The  future  will  rise. 
And — strange  ears  may  ope,  love, 

To  catch  my  low  tone ; 
So,  waiting,  I'll  hope,  love, 

To  meet  thee  alone  ! 


LITTLE    GEORGIE    BALL. 

FOLD  the  snowy  cover  under, 

Where  his  pulseless  form  is  laid, 
Then  sit  down  to  sigh  and  wonder 

Why  this  sudden  call  was  made. 
Lay  the  dimpled  hands  together 

Gently  as  you  bend  to  weep, 
Murmuring  oft,  in  whispers  tender, 

"Little  Georgie's  gone  to  sleep." 

Why,  it  seems  but  yester-morning 

That  his  merry  laugh  rang  out 
As  he  passed,  and,  backward  turning, 

Answered  Josey's  joyous  shout. 
Never  once  I  dreamed,  poor  mother, 

Of  the  shadow  dark  and  deep 
Soon  to  fold  the  "little  brother" 

In  that  icy,  dreamless  sleep. 

Josey  still  keeps  watching,  waiting, 
Both  at  morn  and  twilight  gray, 

103 


104  LITTLE    GEORGIE  BALL. 

V 

Asking,  while  their  sports  relating, 
"Why  don't  Georgie  come  to  play?" 

Then  I  fold  my  arms  about  him, 
Praying  I  may  hold  and  keep ; 

Saying,  "You  must  play  without  him, 
Little  Georgie  is  asleep." 

Weeping  mother,  doting  father, 

Crushed  and  bowed  by  wild  despair, 
Lift  your  eyes  above  the  casket, 

Naught  but  dust  is  prisoned  there  ! 
Know  that  He  who  took  your  darling 

Will  his  deathless  spirit  keep, 
Blest  and  happy  with  the  angels, 

Safe  till  ye  are  called  to  sleep. 

Then  prepare  to  rise  and  meet  him 

When  your  summons  comes  to  go  j 
Wheresoe'er  your  treasure  resteth, 

There  your  spirit-longings  flow. 
It  was  kind  the  pitying  Father, 

Knowing  he  to  wait  must  weep, 
Took  him  ere  earth's  sorrows  found  him,- 

.  Lulled  his  precious  form  to  sleep. 


THE    NEW    YEAR. 

HARK  !  a  phantom  bell  is  tolling,  and  it  tolls  a  funeral 

chime, 

While  a  footfall  totters  slowly  down  the  corridor  of  Time, 
To  the  music  of  a  requiem  from  the  ocean  and  the  shore, 
And  from  dead  and  shrouded  forests,  sighing,  "Never — 

nevermore  !" 
Whence,  oh  whence  this  wail  of  sorrow, — whence  this 

universal  sigh, 

Paling  all  the  stars  that  tremble  in  a  cold  December  sky? 
Why,  with  white  hair  wildly  streaming,  comes  old  Time 

upon  the  blast, 
As  if  marshaling  his  army  from  the  ages  of  the  Past? 

See,  he  veils  his  furrowed  features  as  he  rends  the  gloom 

apart, 
And  the  pall  of  Midnight  hideth  the  cold  form  upon  his 

heart ; 
And  he  groans,  until  his  anguish  fills  the  air  with  dire 

alarms, 
As  he  treads  upon  the  darkness  with  the  dead  Year  in 

his  arms. 
E*  105 


io6  THE  NEW   YEAR. 

Soft !   keep  silent !   he  is  pausing  at  the  grave's  eternal 

brink  ! 
Does  the  yawning  gulf  appall  him  ?     Does  the  blackness 

make  him  shrink? 
No  !  his  ghostly  eyes  are  dimming,  and  he  mourns  the 

fallen  one 
As  the  king  of  old  lamented  o'er  his  lost  and  erring  son : 

"Thy  race  is  run,  my  stricken  one;  thy  fleeting  life  is 

o'er; 
Thy  Summer  breeze  and  Autumn  skies  will  come  to  us  no 

more. 

The  last  day  of  thy  circling  round  has  melted  into  night, 
And  viewless  spirits  wait  the  knell  to  bear  thee  from  my 

sight. 

"What  hast  thou  seen,  my  cold,  dead  Year,  since  first  I 
led  thee  forth, 

And  bade  thee  turn  thy  wondering  gaze  upon  the  slumber 
ing  earth  ? 

Ah  me  !  that  bell — that  phantom  knell — is  tolling,  tolling 
slow, 

As  if  to  answer  in  thy  stead,  '  Far  less  of  joy  than  woe.' 

"'I've  seen,'  it  moans,  in  dismal  tones,   'the  warring 

waves  by  night ; 

Have  watched  the  gallant,  wounded  ship  go  down  and 
.    out  of  sight ; 


THE  NEW   YEAR. 


107 


Have  seen  the  foaming  billows  rave  and  cleave  the  totter 

ing  deck, 
While  dying  creatures,  ghastly  pale,  clung  wildly  to  the 

wreck. 

"  '  I've  seen  the  lurid  lightning  hurled  among  the  frantic 

waves, 
As  if  a  torch  were  flung  from  heaven  to  light  the  ocean 

caves, 

And,  when  the  fury  of  the  blast  lashed  his  huge  ribs  apart, 
I've  tried  to  count  the  giant  throbs  that  wrenched  old 

Ocean's  heart. 

"  '  I've  watched  the  valiant  soldiers  fall  beneath  the  leaden 

rain, 
When  no  sustaining  arms  were  near  to  soothe  their  dying 

pain  ; 
Have  seen  the  homes  made  desolate  by  grim,  insatiate 

War, 
And  wondered  if  'twas  justified  before  Jehovah's  bar.' 

"  What  hast  thou  heard,  my  stricken  one,  what  sounds 

have  met  thine  ear, 

Since  first  arose  my  parting  wail  above  the  buried  year? 
Again  that  knell — that  spirit  bell — is  tolling,  tolling  slow; 
It  speaks  for  thee  still  mournfully,  '  Far  less  of  joy  than 

woe!' 


io8  THE  NEW   YEAR. 

"  '  For  squalid  Poverty  and  Want  have  stalked  throughout 

the  land, 
And  skeletons  of  Pomp  and  Pride  skulked  by  on  every 

hand  ! 
And  from  the  city's  crowded  mart,  as  from  the  barren 

moor, 
The  prayer  has  risen,  "  O  God  of  heaven,  have  mercy  on 

the  poor !" 

"'I've  heard  the  widow's  plaintive  moan,  the  orphan's 

cry  for  bread, 
The  groans  of  helpless  age,  low-stretched    on   Misery's 

stony  bed, 
Have  heard  from  girlhood's  pallid  lips  the  wail  that  slow 

decay 
Wrings  from  the  soul  as,  drop  by  drop,  the  life-tide  ebbs 

away. ' 

"But,  soft !  a  fluttering  of  wings,  a  rustling  through  the 

sky, 
As   if  the  starlight  trembled  down  to  breathe  a  fond 

'Good -by.' 
The  New  Year  comes !  her  innocence  hath  made  stern 

purpose  dumb ; 
My  palsied  hands  refuse  to  lift  the  veil  of  ills  to  come ; 


THE   NEW   YEAR. 


109 


For  though  my  aged  eyes  have  seen  joy  after  joy  depart, 
To  leave  me  naught  but  Memory's  draught, — the  worm 
wood  of  the  heart, — 

"Still  would  I  screen  from  her  young  gaze  the  midnight 

and  the  shade, — 
The  grave-yards  of  the  human  heart, — where,  side  by  side, 

are  laid 
Dear  hopes,  fond  joys,  aspiring  dreams,  that  made  Life's 

morning  bright, 
But,  ere  its  sultry  noon  came  on,  withered  from  early 

blight. 
And  now  farewell !   I  go  to  wait  beyond  the  circling 

years, 
Where  angel-harps  are  hung  to  catch  the  music  of  the 

spheres ; 
Far  up  those  amaranthine  steeps,  where  flowers  eternal 

bloom, 
I'll  watch  her  course  and  gently  light  her  pathway  to  the 

tomb." 


GREETING    TO    THE    SIR    KNIGHTS. 

A  GRAND  BANQUET  AND  RECEPTION  WAS  GIVEN  BY  DAMAS 
CUS    COMMA NDERY   AT    KEOKUK,  IOWA,  OCT.   21,   1875. 

WELCOME,  Sir  Knights  !  the  Chapter  stands 
With  open  arms  and  outstretched  hands  ! 
Damascus  greets,  with  beaming  eye, 
The  chosen  of  the  Mystic  Tie  ! 
And  wreathes  in  green  her  banquet  hall 
For  those  who  heed  her  kindly  call. 

Grand  Knighthood  !  though  not  understood 

The  mystery  of  thy  Brotherhood, 

We  know  each  solemn  rite  conferred 

Is  symboled  in  His  Holy  Word, 

And  that  an  origin  divine 

Is  traced  through  every  secret  sign. 

The  Red  Cross  !  not  yourselves  can  claim 
This  sign  alone, — 'tis  ours  the  same. 
To  it  the  sinner  turns  to  see 
The  dying  throes  on  Calvary, 


GREETING    TO    THE   SIR  KNIGHTS. 

And  learn  Redemption's  price  was  paid 
By  Him  on  Whom  our  guilt  was  laid. 

Who  dares  antiquity  disdain 

That  reaches  back  to  Bethlehem's  plain  ? 

Rolls  back  the  ages  farther  still, 

To  rest  upon  Mount  Zion's  hill  ? 

Claims  the  same  paths  the  prophets  trod, 

And  lifts  the  spirit  up  to  God? 


I    AM    WAITING     FOR    THEE. 

A   SONG   FOR   THE   AGED. 

BELOVED,  dost  know  that,  though  heaven  is  far, 
Heart  throbs  unto  heart  as  star  answereth  to  star? 
That  the  dear  ones  below  and  the  dear  ones  above 
Receive  and  return  mystic  tokens  of  love  ? 
That  the  mourner,  though  lonely,  is  never  alone, 
For  a  form  keeps  its  shadow  in  one  with  his  own  ? 
Has  a  whisper  e'er  thrilled  thee,  a  tone  glad  and  free, 
"Be  patient,  my  own,  I  am  waiting  for  thee? 

"  Lone  heart,  thou  art  weary  !     As  age  stealeth  on 
Thou  longest,  thou  yearnest,  at  times,  to  be  gone. 
I  read  all  thy  thoughts,  and  the  bright  dreams  I  bring, 
The  answers  to  prayers  'neath  my  sheltering  wing, 
I  pour  on  thy  heart  in  the  hush  of  the  night, 
And,  hovering  o'er  thee,  catch  words  of  delight. 
Oh,  wait !  and  be  patient  till  Death  sets  thee  free, 
For,  darling,  be  sure  I  am  waiting  for  thee. 

112 


I  AM   WAITING   FOR    THEE.  II3 

"Yes,  waiting  for  thee,  and  while  thou  must  remain, 
The  summit  of  glory  I  may  not  attain  ; 
Thy  love  is  the  magnet  that  holdeth  me  near 
When  my  spirit  would  soar  to  a  loftier  sphere. 
Oh,  not  e'en  for  heaven  would  I  widen  the  space 
That  holds  me,  at  times,  from  the  light  of  thy  face. 
I  will  stand  at  the  gate,  and  at  last  thou  wilt  see, 
When  He  calls  thee  to  come,  I've  been  waiting  for  thee." 


10* 


WOMAN'S    VOICE. 

WHEN  sin  came  among  us,  and  Eden  was  lone, 

The  pitying  Father  was  kind ; 
For  He  robbed  not  the  woman  of  one  melting  tone, 

Nor  bade  her  leave  beauty  behind. 
So,  with  all  her  sweet  charms  and  her  exquisite  grace, 

Young  Eve  left  that  love-hallowed  bower, 
Retaining  for  Adam  her  beautiful  face, 

And  a  voice  full  of  pathos  and  power. 

And  he,  although  banished,  though  exiled  for  aye, 

From  shades  so  enticing  to  roam, 
Was  not  without  hope,  for  her  love  was  his  stay, 

And  her  soft,  witching  voice  was  his  home. 
To  soothe  him  at  even  with  melody  sweet 

Till  the  desert  around  him  grew  bright, 
At  morn  his  awaking  with  anthems  to  greet, 

Was  her  mission,  her  joy  and  delight. 

Thus  Woman  and  Melody  gently  combined 
To  banish  each  lingering  regret ; 
114 


WOMAN'S   VOICE.  II 

Though  she  lured  him  to  err  and  leave  Eden  behind, 

Resistless,  he  clings  to  her  yet. 
Her  voice,  full  of  sweetness,  persuasive  in  love, 

Entrancing  in  cadence  or  swell, 
Still  sways  him,  as  when,  in  that  lost  Eden  grove, 

He  listened  and  tasted  and  fell. 


THE    BROKEN-HEARTED. 

ALL  pale,  yet  beautiful  in  grief,  she  laid  her  down  to 

rest, 
And  her  head  was  softly  pillowed  on  a  loving  sister's 

breast ; 

A  flower,  exhaling  to  the  skies,  yet  scarce  of  earth  a  part, 
She  was   fading,  drooping,  dying, — dying  of  a  broken 

heart. 
"  Tell  me,  sister,"  thus  she  murmured,  and  her  whispered 

words  scarce  heard 
Fell  like  strains  from  distant  harp-strings  by  soft  breezes 

lightly  stirred, — 
"  Tell  me,  when  my  sands  are  wasted,  when  the  silken 

cord  is  riven, 
Will  this  memory  cling  about  me?  can  I  bear  it  up  to 

heaven  ? 

"  Oh,  answer  yes,  my  sister, — it  were  cruel  to  say  No ; 
He  was  false,  but  do  not  blame  him,  for  I  loved — I  loved 
him  so  ! 
116 


THE  BROKEN-HEARTED.  U7 

I  have  suffered  keenly,  deeply,  but  the  strife  is  almost  o'er, 
And  my  latest  thoughts  now  wander  to  the  sunny  days  of 

yore. 
Do  not  tell  him,  should  he  seek  you,  how  my  heart  by 

grief  was  wrung ; 
Only  say,  I  died  with  blessings  and  his  name  upon  my 

tongue. 
Tell  him  how  I  clasped  his  image  fondly,  wildly,  to  my 

breast, — 
How  I  prayed  that  he  would  join  me  in  the  mansions  of 

the  blest ; 
How  the  dearest  hope  I  cherished  was,  that  when  my  soul 

was  free, 
Its  deep  love  might  still  be  changeless  through  a  long 

eternity. 

Ask  him  if  he  has  forgotten  the  quiet,  mossy  dell 
Where  we  used  to  sit  together  when  the  twilight  shadows 

fell; 
Where  he  gently  smoothed  my  tresses,  drew  me  closer  to 

his  side, 
Breathing  low,  in  tenderest  accents,  '  Golden-haired  and 

sunny-eyed.' 
Where  my  forehead  with  the  baptism  of  his  lips  was  often 

wet ; 
Ah,  those  moments,  gone  forever,  how  I  love,  how  prize 

them  yet ! 


n8  THE  BROKEN-HEARTED. 

Their  remembrance  lingers  o'er  me,  the  dear  star-light  of 

my  heart, 
And,  though  all  grow  dim  around  me,  this  can  nevermore 

depart. 

"Ask  him  more, — if  he  remembers  one  lovely  eve  in  June, 
How  we  wandered  to  the  brook-side  to  watch  the  rising 

moon ; 
How,  in  playfulness,  his  fingers  traced  my  name  upon  the 

sand ; 
How  his  own  was  writ  beneath  it  in  a  trembling,  fluttering 

hand. 
Oh,  he  does  not  dream  how  sacredly  those  golden  grains 

I've  kept, 
Or   how,    that   moonlit    evening,    while    others   sweetly 

slept, 

I  glided  o'er  the  dewy  lawn,  soft  oped  the  garden-gate, 
And,    reaching   thus  the   trysting-spot, — now   lone   and 

desolate, — 

I  gathered  up  each  tiny  grain,  and,  with  a  miser's  care, 
Concealed    them  with  my  treasured  gifts, — the   tress  of 

auburn  hair, 
The  picture,  and  the  withered  bud,  now  hidden  on  my 

breast, — 
There,  sister,  let  them  slumber  when  you  lay  me  down  to 

rest. 


THE  BR  0  KEN- HE  A  R  7  ED. 


119 


"Softly,  softly!   Oh,  my  sister,  has  the  daylight  faded 

quite? 

Or  does  memory  now  bathe  me  in  a  flood  of  starry  light? 
I  can  see  him, — he  is  coming, — now  his  arms  are  open 

wide; 
Lay  me,  sister,  on  his  bosom  !     What  is  all  the  world 

beside  ? 
Oh,  I  knew  he  would  be  constant !     I  was  sure  that  he 

would  come ; 
Nearer,  nearer,  sister — tell  him — tell  him — I — am — going 

— home. 
You  will  never  call  him  faithless — never  censure,  blame 

him — No! 
Only  tell  him,  sister  dearest,  that  I  loved — I  loved  him 

so!" 

Her  voice  was  hushed  ;  twas  over ;  no  murmur — scarce  a 

sigh  ; 

The  silence  was  unbroken,  save  by  seraphs  floating  by. 
The  watcher  shed  no  tear-drop  as  she  closed  those  rayless 

eyes, 

For  she  knew  she  would  awaken  to  the  joys  of  Paradise. 
The  hectic  flush  had  faded  from  those  snowy  cheeks  of 

clay, 
But  she  thought  of  bloom  perennial  in   the  climes  of 

endless  day. 


120  THE   BROKEN-HEARTED. 

The  pallid  lips  seemed  quivering  with  a  soft  angelic  smile, 
As  though  the  soul,  at  parting,  had  lingered  there  awhile 
To  breathe  its  benediction  o'er  that  form  of  matchless 

mold, 
So  calm,  so  pure,  so  beautiful,  so   young,  yet,  oh  !    so 

cold. 
And  when  they  robed  her  for  the  tomb,  they  found  a 

shining  band 
Of  auburn  hair, — a  withered  bud, — his  pictured  face, — 

and  sand  ! 
These,  and  that  face  so  sadly  sweet,  a  tale  of  suffering 

spoke ; 
They  told  how  much  that  gentle  heart  was  tortured  ere  it 

broke. 


A    VALENTINE. 

TO    MY   ABSENT   DAUGHTER,    ELLA. 

THINK  of  me,  darling!  My  poor  heart  seems  breaking, 

Saddened  and  crushed,  by  thy  constant  forsaking. 

Never  an  hour  but  thy  face  is  before  me, 

Never  a  day  but  I  bend  fondly  o'er  thee, 

Never  a  night  but  my  arms  steal  about  thee, 

While  my  heart  cries,  "Must  I  still  live  without  thee?" 

Nothing  I  listen  to,  nothing  I  see, 

Stills,  for  one  moment,  my  longings  for  thee. 

Think  of  me,  pet,  and  if  thou,  too,  dost  miss  me, 
Hold  up  thy  lips,  as  if  waiting  to  kiss  me. 
Let  the  good  angels  above  us  discover, 
Mamma,  though  distant,  has  some  one  to  love  her. 
Bid  them  to  waft  me  thy  kiss  as  a  token 
That  the  tie  binding  us  ne'er  can  be  broken ; 
E'en  as  the  oak  wooes  the  upreaching  vine, 
Yearneth  my  heart  to  be  circled  by  thine. 

F  II  121 


22  A    VALENTINE. 

Think  of  me,  sweet !     When  the  sun's  golden  quiver 
Loosens  the  bands  of  our  beautiful  river, 
Bend  thy  red  lips  where  its  wavelets  are  kneeling, — 
Freight  them  with  whispers  of  tenderest  feeling, — 
Let  the  clear  waters,  as  thou  leanest  over, 
Clasp  thy  dear  image  and  bear  me,  thy  lover, 
Something  to  cheer  me, — a  shadow  or  sign, — 
Something  to  prove  thee  my  own  Valentine. 


A  WELCOME  TO  MRS.  FRANCES  D. 
GAGE. 

I  WAIT  thy  coming,  honored  friend, 

With  tenderness  and  tears, 
For  memory's  tapers  brighter  burn 
As  age  steals  on,  until  I  yearn 
With  confidence  and  trust  to  turn 

To  friends  of  other  years. 

I've  had  my  share  of  golden  dreams, 

Of  hopes  and  haunting  fears  ; 
Of  days  whose  suns  in  darkness  set, 
Of  ecstasies  that  thrill  me  yet 
And  make  my  weary  heart  forget 

The  weight  of  twenty  years. 

The  silvery  threads  are  whiter  now 

That  on  thy  brow  appear  ;  , 
Age,  suffering,  and,  it  may  be,  care 
Have  left  their  spotless  symbol  there, 
As  pure  as  the  fresh  snow-flakes  are 

That  deck  the  dying  year. 

123 


124 


A   WELCOME    TO   MRS.  FRANCES  D.  GAGE. 

The  shock  full  ripe,  the  golden  grain 

Awaits  the  Reaper's  hand; 
Awaits  the  Boatman's  silent  oar — 
The  signal  from  a  distant  shore — 
For  tones  of  loved  ones  gone  before, 

Guides  to  the  spirit-land. 

The  bravest  heroes  are  not  they 

Who  foremost  rush  to  fight ; 
But  they  who  aid  each  glorious  plan 
That  elevates  their  fellow-man  ; 
Who  help  to  kindle,  feed,  and  fan 

The  smouldering  flames  of  Right. 

More  beautiful  are  withered  hands 

Than  fingers  girt  with  gold, 
If  they  have  scattered  here  and  there, 
With  blessings  oft,  sometimes  with  prayer, 
The  seeds  of  good,  henceforth  to  bear 

Perchance  an  hundred-fold. 


The  tenderest  and  the  truest  hearts, 

Strong  in  their  purity, 
Are  such  as  crucify  desire, 
Forgetting  self  in  purpose  higher, 


A   WELCOME    TO  MRS.  FRANCES  D.   GAGE. 

To  raise  humanity  still  nigher 
To  Him  who  made  us  free. 

That  voice  can  never  lose  its  thrill, 

Its  pathos  and  its  power, 
That  swells  responsive  to  a  call ; 
Whose  earnest  tones  will  rise  and  fall 
In  pleadings  for  the  good  of  all 

Until  the  closing  hour. 


125 


ii* 


OH,    WHY    WAS    HE    TAKEN? 

DEDICATED  TO  MRS.   H.  SCOTT  HOWELL,  OF  KEOKUK,  IOWA. 

OH,  why  was  he  taken  in  Life's  early  morning, 

Your  only — your  darling — your  beautiful  boy? 
Why  torn  from  your  arms  without  whisper  or  warning, 

The  babe  that  you  counted  a  "  well-spring  of  joy  "? 
Did  you  love  him  too  much?  Had  the  future  been  gilded 

With  pictures  too  golden — with  dreams  all  too  bright  ? 
And  was  it  for  this  all  the  hopes  you  had  builded 

Were   shattered    and    crushed    by    Death's   withering 
blight  ? 

What  is  home  to  you  now,  since  your  hearthstone  may 

never 

i 
Be  gladdened  again  by  that  innocent  face, — 

Since  the  light  of  his  presence  has  vanished  forever, 
And  HO  sign  of  the  soft,  dimpled  hands  you  may  trace? 

As  you  sit  by  his  crib,  with  his  playthings  beside  you, 
His  rattle  and  ring  and  each  worn,  broken  toy, 

Your  empty  hearts  reach  for  the  treasure  denied  you, 
And  your  lips  wait  in  vain  for  the  kiss  of  your  boy. 
126 


OH,   WHY  WAS  HE    TAKEN?  127 

i 

And  you  wonder,  so  often,  if  this  folded  blossom 

In  Eden's  own  light  will  unopened  remain  ; 
When  your   bud   is  reclaimed,   will  you  clasp   to  your 
bosom 

Your  baby — the  dear,  angel- baby — again? 
Will  it  rest  on  His  breast,  "as  a  child,"  till  your  coming, 

In  His  sheltering  arms  Who  bade  children  to  come? 
"Oh,  yes!"  Faith  replies,  as  you  look  through  the  gloam 
ing: 

"  Not  lost — only  waiting  with  Jesus — at  Home" 


MY    MOTHER'S     GLASSES. 

I  OPENED  a  worn  trunk  yesterday, 

Sitting  alone  in  my  quiet  room, 
And  sighed  as  I  saw  them  folded  away, — 
The  garments  there, — for  the  form  that  lay 

Clad  in  white  robes  in  the  silent  tomb. 

I  lifted  each  with  the  tenderest  care, 

And  laid  them  out  in  the  morning  breeze  ; 
The  caps  and  'kerchiefs  she  used  to  wear, 
With  keepsakes,  letters,  and  locks  of  hair  ; 
And  paused  to  muse  when  I  came  to  these, 

The  glasses  that  aided  her  aged  eyes, 

Grown  dim  from  sorrows  and  length  of  years; 
She  slept,  at  last,  and  earth's  mists  and  tears 

Were  changed  for  the  brightness  of  Paradise. 

Does  she  watch,  I  wonder,  with  yearning  gaze, 

For  one  she  longeth  to  welcome  there  ? 
When,  loosed  from  the  fetters  of  earth  and  sin, 
128 


MY  MOTHER'S    GLASSES. 


129 


The  white-robed  angels  glide  softly  in, 

Does  she  mark  the  features  the  ransomed  wear  ? 

If  so,  how  long  must  the  watcher  wait 

Till  she  clasps  the  pilgrim  she  longs  to  greet? 
Must  my  eyes  grow  dim,  must  I  tarry  late 
Ere  I  catch  the  gleam,  near  the  golden  gate, 
Of  glances  with  mother-love  replete  ? 

How  long  till  my  glasses  are  laid  aside 
To  gather  dust  in  the  years  to  come  ? 

To  be  found,  perchance,  at  some  distant  day, 

By  those  I  love,  who  will  softly  say, 

"No  tear-dimmed  eyes  in  her  radiant  Home." 


THE     MISSISSIPPI    RIVER. 

THERE  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  river  as  grand 

As  the  one  whose  bright  waves  lave  my  own  native  land  ; 

From  the  dear  mother-lake  which  it  leaves  with  a  sigh, 

And  murmurs,  at  parting,  a  tender  good-by, 

On  down  to  the  Gulf,  that,  with  arms  open  wide, 

Receives  to  her  bosom  the  on-rushing  tide, 

Repeating  the  vow  by  her  lover  begun, 

That  henceforth,  forever,  their  lives  shall  be  one, 

There  are  beauty  and  freshness  and  splendor  untold 

On  its  shores,  on  its  isles,  in  its  ripples  of  gold. 

Past  meadow  and  moorland,  past  forest  and  glade, 
How  grandly  it  courses  in  sunlight  and  shade  ! 
Reflecting  the  blushes  of  morn's  rosy  light, 
Or  set  with  tiaras  of  star-gems  at  night ; 
So  mirroring  heaven  that  if  loved  ones  might  stray 
Through  portals  of  light  in  the  regions  of  day, 
Or  mount  its  bright  ramparts  and  fondly  look  down, 
We  might  catch,  in  these  waters,  the  gleam  of  a  crown, 
A  glad  smile  of  joy  on  a  glorified  face, 
And  white  arms  upheld  for  a  tender  embrace. 
130 


THE  MISSISSIPPI  RIVER.  131 

Say,  River  of  rivers,  what  is't  they  implore 

As  thy  ripples  press  forward  to  kneel  on  thy  shore  ? 

I  see  them,  at  morn,  lowly  bending  in  prayer, — 

At  even  their  pleadings  float  soft  on  the  air. 

While  up  through  the  starlight  comes,  tender  and  low, 

The  trembling  refrain  of  their  murmuring  flow. 

What  yearnings  can  move  thee,  what  longings  can  start, 

With  heaven's  own  image  clasped  close  to  thy  heart? 

I  think,  when  thy  islands  of  verdure  are  seen, 

Of  Eden's  still  waters  and  pastures  of  green, 

And  feel,  when  my  feet  touch  thy  shore's  dewy  sod, 

A  sense  of  His  presence,  a  nearness  to  God. 

A  picture  floats  up  from  thy  blue  waves  to  me 

Of  Him  who  sat  down  by  Gennesareth's  sea; 

And  e'en  when  thy  storm-maddened  billows  mount  high, 

They  waft  me  the  whisper, — "Fear  not,  it  is  I." 


MOUNT    VERNON. 

A  CALL — and  to  Woman  ! 

A  voice  from  the  sod 
Where  Washington's  spirit 

Ascended  to  God  ! 
A  wail  from  the  billows 

That  chant  round  the  brave, 
A  sigh  from  the  willows 

That  bend  o'er  his  grave  ; 
A  moan  from  the  pathway 

Long  worn  by  the  tread 
Of  worshiping  pilgrims, 

Who  kneel  by  his  bed  ; 
A  cry  from  the  Nation, 

That  WOMAN  may  come 
And  rescue  from  ruin 

Our  WASHINGTON'S  TOMB. 

A  glorious  purpose — 

A  mission  divine, 
To  wrest  from  the  spoiler 

A  world-worshiped  shrine ; 
132 


MOUNT   VERNON.  133 

.  A  call  that  should  thrill  us 

With  eager  desire 
To  claim  for  his  children 

The  dust  of  their  sire. 
Not  oft  has  such  measure 

Of  glory  been  ours, — 
Our  memories  to  garland 

With  fame's  deathless  flowers ; 
To  stamp  on  the  tablets 

Of  ages  to  come, 
Our  names  as  the  guardians 

Of  WASHINGTON'S  HOME. 

Float  gently,  proud  banner, 

Where  greatness  is  laid  ; 
Steal  soft,  bugle  chorus, 

Through  Vernon's  still  shade; 
Go,  silence  the  cannon 

And  muffle  the  drum, 
For,  lo  !  to  her  Mecca 

Fond  WOMAN  has  come. 
No  army  defends  her, 

No  weapons  she  bears, 
For  LOVE  is  her  watchword, 

Embalmed  with  her  prayers. 

12 


MOUNT   VERNON. 

She  kneels  where  the  laurel 
And  wild  myrtle  bloom, 

And  claims  as  a  ransom 
Her  WASHINGTON'S  TOMB. 

No  thunder-voiced  ramparts 

She  rears  o'er  his  clay, 
No  emblems  to  warn  us 

Of  Tyranny's  sway ; 
No  fortress,  defended 

By  armor  or  gun, 
To  frown  o'er  the  ashes 

Of  God's  chosen  one  ; 
But  the  wall  that  encircles 

Our  hero's  loved  grave 
Shall  be  heart  to  heart  banded, - 

The  gentle  and  brave. 
While  the  pride  of  the  Nation 

Forever  shall  be 
The  strong  love  of  WOMAN, — 

The  shield  of  the  free. 


ONE    YEAR    OLD. 

SITTING  with  my  babes  around  me, 

And  the  youngest  on  my  knee, 
Gazing  through  the  open  lattice 

At  the  sunlight  warm  and  free; 
Thinking  how  my  spirit  doteth 

On  this  blessed  Autumn-time, 
How  she  loves  its  low-voiced  whispers 

Better  than  the  Christmas  chime, 
Or  the  babbling  of  the  brooklet 

When  it  bursts  its  icy  band, 
Winter's  close  and  Spring's  returning 

Loud  proclaiming  through  the  land, — 
Musing  thus,  my  eye  unconscious 

Seeks  the  lambkin  of  our  fold, 
And  Remembrance  softly  murmurs, 

"  She  is  just  a  twelvemonth  old  !" 

Little  hands  !   'neath  their  light  pressure 
Naught  but  dimples  now  I  trace ; 

Trusting  eyes,  turned  fondly  upward, 
Mutely  woo  a  warm  embrace. 

135 


ONE    YEAR    OLD. 

Timid  lips,  that  ne'er  have  ventured 

On  the  first  sweet,  trembling  word, 
Fluttering  voice,  that  utters  only 

Cooings  like  some  nestling  bird, 
Save  when  raised  in  mocking  laughter 

As  she  joins  the  children's  play, 
Listening  to  their  gleeful  chorus  : 

"Addie's  one  year  old  to-day  !" 

Tottering  feet,  that  claim  the  guidance 

Of  a  mother's  guarding  hand  ; 
Tiny  form,  that  bends  and  trembles 

In  its  weak  attempts  to  stand  ; 
Will  that  hand  be  spared  to  guide  thee 

Onward  through  the  coming  years  ? 
Will  her  voice  be  near  to  banish 

All  thy  childish  doubts  and  fears? 
Precious  one  !  when  slumber  binds  thee 

Thoughts  like  these  so  often  start, 
For  there's  many  a  secret  longing 

Prisoned  in  a  mother's  heart. 

Should  this  be,  O  Father  !  aid  me 
In  the  truths  I  would  impress ; 

When  I  crave  Divine  Assistance, 
Deign  to  hearken  and  to  bless. 


ONE    YEAR    OLD. 

Sooner  than  these  feet  should  wander 

Wayward,  erring,  from  the  Right, 
Or  these  hands  in  acts  of  kindness 

Never  learn  to  take  delight ; 
Sooner  than  these  lips  should  utter 

Slander  base  or  black  untruth,_ 
And  this  spotless  soul  be  sullied 

In  the  golden  hour  of  youth ; 
Sooner,  though  the  pang  it  cost  me 

Might  be  more  than  I  could  bear, 
Would  I  see  the  death-dew  gather 

Now  upon  her  forehead  fair ; 
Sooner,  when  the  spring-time  cometh, 

Part  the  grass  above  the  mold, 
Reading  on  the  tablet  o'er  her: 

"Little  Addie,  one  year  old." 

12* 


137 


OH,    WHAT    SHALL    BE    MY    SONG 
TO-NIGHT? 

OH,  what  shall  be  my  song  to-night  ? 

The  earth,  the  sea,  or  sky, 
The  star-gems,  with  their  trembling  light, 

Or  night-bird's  plaintive  cry? 
Not  such  can  fill  the  lonely  heart 

With  thoughts  of  bliss  divine  ; 
Not  such  a  holy  thrill  impart 

To  spirit  warm  as  thine. 

The  dawning  of  a  lovely  form 

Upon  the  raptured  eye ; 
The  hand's  soft  touch,  so  true  and  warm, 

The  red  lip's  answering  sigh  ; 
The  gentle  voice  for  which  we  yearn 

In  crowds  or  lonely  dell, 
The  beaming  eye  to  which  we  turn 

Enthralled  by  beauty's  spell, — 

These  be  the  burden  of  my  song, 

While  dreams  of  heaven  are  thine, 
138 


OH,   WHAT  SHALL  BE  MY  SONG   TO-NIGHT?      139 

Made  glorious  by  the  angel  throng 

Bowed  at  an  earthly  shrine. 
Then  turn  thee  once  from  them  to-night 

To  one  who  wanders  free, 
To  sing  how  all  things  pure  and  bright 

Have  found  a  home  in  thee. 


LINES 

ACCOMPANYING    A    CROSS    PRESENTED    TO    FATHER    MALONE 
BY   HIS   PARISHIONERS. 

WHEN  the  dwelling  is  completed 

That  we  haste  to  rear  for  thee, 
Reverend  Father,  place  this  symbol 

Where,  at  morn,  thou  bend'st  the  knee  ; 
When  at  eve  thy  low  petitions 

For  thy  people  softly  rise, 
Let  them  touch  this  blessed  emblem 

As  they  journey  to  the  skies. 

May  thy  life  be  pure  and  holy ! 

May  thy  faith  be  firm  when  tried  ! 
May'st  thou  take  for  thy  example 

Him  they  scourged  and  crucified  ! 
May'st  thou  learn,  in  every  trial, 

Be  it  danger,  pain,  or  loss, 
While  the  billows  surge  around  thee, 

To  cling  only  to  His  cross  ! 
140 


VOICELESS    PRAYER. 

ALL  their  childish  sports  were  over, 

All  their  mimic  work  was  done, 
And  they  came  and  knelt  beside  me, 

Hushed  and  solemn,  one  by  one. 
Meekly  were  their  soft  hands  folded, 

And,  with  young  heads  lowly  bowed, 
Softly  fell  their  "  Our  Father," 

As  a  star-beam  through  a  cloud. 

When  the  solemn  prayer  was  ended, 

And  the  last  "Good-night"  was  told, 
From  my  lap  the  baby  clambered, 

Tiny  waif,  a  twelvemonth  old. 
Dimpled  hands  were  clasped  together, 

Blue  eyes  raised  with  reverent  grace, 
While  a  look  of  sweet  devotion 

Gathered  on  his  cherub  face. 

Wherefore  came  that  mute  appealing? 
Wherefore  was  his  white  soul  stirred, 

141 


142  VOICELESS  PRAYER. 

Ere  his  crimson  lips  had  parted 

With  the  first  low,  trembling  word? 

Could  an  earnest  wish  be  prisoned 
In  the  Eden  of  his  heart? 

Did  a  prayer  for  heavenly  guidance 
From  that  stainless  spirit  start? 

"Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer," 
To  my  ear  the  whisper  floated 

As  I  watched  him  kneeling  there ; 
Gazed  and  murmured,  "Meet  for  heaven 

Are  the  prayers  of  such  as  he ; 
Innocence,  in  silent  pleading, 

At  the  throne  of  Purity." 

Then  I  thought  of  all  the  lessons 

Taught  by  Him,  the  Undefiled  ; 
Most  I  loved  His  simple  sermon 

With  this  text,  "A  little  child." 
And  these  sacred  words  seemed  uttered  : 

"  Humble,  trusting,  free  from  sin, 
As  the  babe  who  kneels  beside  thee, 

Must  thou  be  to  enter  in." 


GONE    TO    SLEEP. 

LITTLE  GEORGIE  HUSSY,  OF  DES  MOINES,  IOWA,  WHO  DIED 
DURING  HIS  MOTHER'S  ABSENCE  FROM  HOME. 

DROP  the  curtain  gently,  softly  ! 

Shut  the  golden  sunlight  out ; 
Bid  the  merry  children,  passing, 

Hush  their  laugh  and  joyous  shout. 
Lay  aside  the  snowy  cover 

Over  which  light  shadows  creep, 
Then  draw  near  and'murmur  over, 

"  Little  Georgie  is  asleep  !" 

Oh  !  'tis  hard  for  thee,  poor  mother, 

Bending  o'er  thy  darling  now; 
Covering  with  earnest  kisses 

Icy  lips  and  marble  brow, — 
Hard  to  come  and  find  the  treasure 

Thou  hadst  hoped  to  hold  and  keep, 
Cold  and  quiet  in  his  casket, 

Bright  eyes  hidden — fast  asleep  ! 

H3 


144  GONE    TO   SLEEP. 

Yet  remember,  when  thou  bendest 

O'er  his  crib  and  empty  chair, 
When  the  yearning  love  within  thee 

Cries  from  anguish  and  despair, 
That  the  One  who  called  him  upward 

Will  thy  precious  lambkin  keep  ; 
Only  to  earth's  cares  and  sorrows 

Has  thy  darling  gone  to  sleep  ! 


GRANDMOTHER     DICKEY. 

IT  was  years  ago  one  October  day 

When  a  shadow  fell  on  my  Life's  bright  way ; 

And,  with  fond  hopes  blighted  and  glad  dreams  fled, 

I  turned  with  a  weary,  desolate  tread 

To  the  home  I  had  left  with  light  step  and  free, 

Where  my  mother  waited  and  prayed  for  me. 

Ah  !  though  crushed  by  woe,  not  of  all  bereft 

Can  we  ever  feel  while  this  friend  is  left. 

The  love  of  a  mother  is  strong  and  true, — 

Unchanged,  undiminished,  our  whole  life  through  : 

And  her  circling  arms  are  our  truest  stay 

When  hopes  we  have  cherished  have  passed  away. 

"  Grandmother  Dickey,"  an  aged  dame, 
Walked  over  to  see  me  the  day  I  came : 
It  was  life's  October  with  grandmother  then, 
While  mother  had  passed  her  threescore  and  ten. 
And  they  both  would  fain  have  soothed  me  there, 
As  I  sat  beside  them  in  mute  despair. 

«  13  '45 


146  GRANDMOTHER  DICKEY. 

"Grandmother"  said  it  would  not  be  long 

Till  ray  call  would  come  from  the  ransomed  throng ; 

Life  was  only  a  span,  and  'twould  be  so  sweet 

For  friends,  long  parted,  again  to  meet. 

And  she  told  me  my  duty  was  plain  and  clear 

To  comfort  the  dear  ones  left  me  here. 

Then  we  all  knelt  down,  the  pilgrims  twain, 
With  me  between  them  ;  and  not  in  vain 
Were  the  fervent  prayers,  as  on  bended  knee 
They  asked  the  Father  to  comfort  me. 
For,  like  perfume  wafted  from  fields  of  balm, 
There  came  o'er  my  spirit  a  wondrous  calm. 

This  was  years  ago,  and  a  long,  long  while 

It  seemed  as  I  passed  o'er  the  grave-yard  stile, 

And  on  through  the  leaves  of  brown,  crimson,  and  gold 

That  covered  the  graves  from  the  Winter's  cold ; 

Then  sat  me  down  where  the  maples  wave 

Their  shadowy  boughs  o'er  my  mother's  grave. 

And  my  thoughts  went  back,  as  I  bowed  me  there, 
To  an  aged  form,  bent  in  earnest  prayer ; 
And  I  said,  She  is  old  now  as  mother  was  then, — 
If  she  lives,  she  has  counted  threescore  and  ten. 


GRANDMOTHER  DICKEY.  147 

And  musing  thus,  with  my  lifted  eyes 

Fixed  on  the  dreary  October  skies, 

I  stood,  while  the  branches  above  poured  down 

Their  wealth  of  crimson  and  gold  and  brown ; 

Then  turned  to  follow  the  sound  they  gave, 

And  to  watch  them  fall  on  a  new-made  grave. 

A  rustling  of  feet  'mid  the  leaflets  sere 

Made  me  turn  to  look, — 'twas  a  child  drew  near. 

"  Come  hither,  my  lad  !     Whose  grave?     Pray  tell !" 

"  Why,  GRANDMOTHER  DICKEY'S  :  you  knew  her  well. 

She  was  old  and  feeble  and  wanted  to  go, 

For  so  many  were  dead  that  she  used  to  know." 

I  measured  the  space.     I  was  just  between 

The  pilgrims'  graves,  as  that  day  I  had  been  *- 

Between  the  twain  when  her  voice  arose 

To  the  pitying  Father  to  soothe  my  woes. 

But  the  lips  were  silent  that  prayed  for  me 

Whom  Faith  had  forsaken  on  Life's  rough  sea. 

And  my  heart  wailed  out  a  despairing  moan, — 

A  cry  for  the  earth-love  forever  flown  ; 

Until  mother's  voice  through  the  silence  came, 

"  Waiting  and  praying,  love,  all  the  same." 

And  then  "Grandmother's"  words,  "It  will  be  so  sweet 

When  friends,  long  parted,  again  shall  meet !" 


"THE     EASTERN     STAR." 

READ   BEFORE   THE   MEMBERS   OF   THIS    DEGREE   AT    HAMIL 
TON,  ILLINOIS,  ON    ST.  JOHN'S   DAY,  JUNE    24,   1875. 

MOST  worthy  Patron,  Matron,  friends, 
The  blue  sky  fondly  o'er  us  bends; 
This  grand  old  river  at  our  feet 
Listens,  as  if  'twould  fain  repeat 
To  distant  shore  or  passing  breeze 

A  murmur  of  our  melodies. 
» 

Oh,  wisely  chosen,  the  gentle  Five, 
Whose  spotless  virtues  we  should  strive 
To  imitate,  that  we  may  be 
Worthy  adoptive  Masonry  ; 
Worthy  to  learn  their  sacred  rite 
When  heavenly  Orders  greet  our  sight ; 
Worthy  to  catch  the  mystic  sign 
When  Eastern  stars  below  us  shine  ; 
Worthy  to  learn  the  pass-word  given 
By  the  sweet  Sisterhood  of  heaven, 
148 


THE   EASTERN  STAR.  149 

When  golden  gates  are  open  wide, 
By  loved  ones  on  the  other  side. 

Mizpah  !*  the  very  name  is  fraught 
With  sweet  significance  ;  for  thought 
Carries  the  heart  to  other  years ; 
The  circlet  on  the  hand  appears 
As  first  it  glowed  when,  "Only  thine," 
Responded  to  the  mystic  sign. 

On  Gilead's  mount  the  maiden  stood, 
Not  dreaming  of  the  vow  of  blood 
That  bound  her,  in  her  budding  bloom, 
To  meet  a  dread,  unaltered  doom. 
The  father  came,  exultant,  back, 
Hoping  a  pet-lamb  on  the  track 
Would,  bounding,  welcome  his  return  ; 
But,  ah  !  sad  fate  the  truth  to  learn  ! 
His  lovely  child,  with  flying  feet, 
Hastened,  her  honored  sire  to  meet. 

Then  Jephthah  told  his  vow,  and  said, 

"  Would  that  my  life  might  serve  instead  !" 

*  "  Mizpah''  is  often  engraved  in  engagement-rings  ;  for  meaning,  see 
Gen.  xxxi.  49. 


'5° 


THE  EASTERN  STAR. 

But  the  proud  daughter  answered,  "  No  ! 
'Twas  to  the  Lord, — it  must  be  so." 

That  answer  stands,  a  first  Degree, 
In  our  adoptive  Masonry. 

O  Constancy  !  bright  badge  of  love, 
Ruth  did  thy  mighty  fullness  prove. 
"Where'er  thou  goest  I  will  go; 
Thy  resting-place  I,  too,  must  know ; 
Thy  fate,  thy  country,  I  will  try, 
And  where  thou  diest  I  will  die." 
Forsaking  Moab's  dewy  sod, 
Her  kindred  and  her  people's  God, 
Of  faithful  Mahlon's  love  bereft, 
Her  fond  heart  had  Naomi  left. 

"  Esther,  my  queen  !  what  wilt  thou,  say? 

If  half  my  kingdom,  I  obey  !" 

The  golden  sceptre  near  her  bent, 

Admiring  numbers  gazed  intent ; 

She,  kneeling,  touched  the  shining  thing, 

And  cried,  "  My  people  !  O  my  king  !" 

Fidelity  to  kindred  shone 

In  every  feature,  and  her  tone, 

Though  tremulous,  was  firm  and  brave 

As  the  fond  look  of  love  she  gave. 


THE  EASTERN  STAR.  151 

The  Crown  and  Sceptre  thus  find  place 
Whene'er  our  third  Degree  we  trace. 

"  Hadst  Thou  been  here,  he  had  not  died  !" 

Weeping,  the  trusting  Martha  cried  ; 

"Yet,  even  now,  O  blessed  Lord, 

My  soul  hangs  trembling  on  Thy  word  !" 

Oh,  love  sublime  !     Oh,  wondrous  power, 

To  stay  her  in  affliction's  hour ! 

Her  white  arms,  raised  in  mute  appeal, 

Her  spirit's  eager  hope  reveal. 

She  sees, — she  feels  her  Saviour  nigh, 

And  Faith  repeats  its  yearning  cry  : 

"  I  know  that  he  will  rise  again, 

Yet  even  now," — and  not  in  vain 

The  sweet  voice  plead, — she  led  the  way 

To  where  the  lifeless  Lazarus  lay ; 

And  then  across  His  brow  there  swept 

A  mortal  sorrow, — -Jesus  wept. 

Then  His  diviner  nature  spoke : 

"  Lazarus,  come  forth  !"     The  dead  awoke 

To  learn  a  woman's  faith  could  prove 

The  largeness  of  a  Saviour's  love, 

To  learn  His  pitying  heart  could  melt 

When  those  He  loved  in  anguish  knelt. 


152  THE   EASTERN  STAR. 

Our  broken  Column, — fourth  Degree, 
Is  type  of  Death  in  Masonry ; 
The  Evergreen,  its  shaft  beside, 
Emblem  of  fields  beyond  the  tide, 
Where,  in  Fidelity  complete, 
Sits  Martha  at  her  Saviour's  feet. 

"  Forgive  them,  Father  !  they  are  blind  !" 

Thus  prayed  Electa,  ever  kind ; 

Her  husband,  children,  home  were  gone, 

Yet,  brave  and  true,  she  stood  alone. 

The  tender  hands  that  gently  led 

The  needy  in,  the  hungry  fed, 

That  prisoned  in  their  fervent  hold 

The  wretched  wanderer,  pinched  and  cold, 

That  held  her  hospitable  Cup 

To  famished  lips  so  bravely  up, 

Those  hands  condemned  (so  soft  and  fair) 

The  Crucifixion  pang  to  bear  ! 

Her  perfect  confidence  in  God, 
Her  sweet  submission  'neath  the  rod, 
Form,  of  her  attributes,  the  key 
To  ope  our  sacred  fifth  Degree. 

Lo  !  in  the  East  the  Magi  saw 

The  star,  and,  filled  with  holy  awe, 


THE  EASTERN  STAR. 

They  followed,  in  their  winding  way, 
To  where  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem  lay. 
A  woman's  hand  its  brow  caressed, — 
'Twas  pillowed  on  a  woman's  breast; 
While  its  first  look  of  pleased  surprise 
Found  answer  in  a  woman's  eyes. 

Then,  may  not  Woman  bear  a  part 

In  Masonry's  exalted  art? 

And  what  bright  emblem,  near  or  far, 

Significant  as  Eastern  Star? 

Our  Worthy  Matron  long  has  sfyDod 

Crowned  with  her  badge  of  Motherhood, 

And  knows  full  well  the  rapturous  bliss 

That  woke  with  Mary's  welcoming  kiss. 

Our  Worthy  Patron  guardian  stands, 
Ready  to  guide  with  willing  hands ; 
Explaining  Emblem,  Signet,  Hue, 
Exhorting  us  to  honor  true, 
Telling  how  widowed  Ruth  could  glean 
Humbly  the  golden  sheaves  between ; 
Extolling  Martha's  changeless  trust, 
When  life  had  sought  its  kindred  dust ; 
Recalling  Esther's  pleading  tone, 
That  moved  Assyria's  mighty  throne; 


153 


G* 


154 


THE   EASTERN  STAR. 

And  holding,  like  a  crystal  cup, 
Electa's  pure  devotion  up. 

Be  ye,  ray  sisters,  tender,  true, 
As  our  sweet  type,  the  Violet  blue  ; 
Steadfast  as  flower  that  ne'er  will  shun 
The  rising  nor  the  setting  sun. 
Pure  as  the  spotless  Lily  shine ; 
Changeless  and  bright  as  leaves  of  Pine; 
Fervent  of  soul  as  Life  can  be 
When  warmed  by  glowing  Charity. 

r 

Friends,  brothers  of  the  mystic  tie, 
Can  we,  unnoticed,  pass  you  by  ? 
You,  who  have  dried  the  widow's  tears 
And  hushed  the  trembling  orphan's  fears? 
Who,  linked  as  in  a  golden  band, 
With  widening  circles  fill  our  land  ? 
Can  aged  eyes,  though  dimmed  by  tears, 
Shut  out  the  home  that  still  appears 
Changeless  and  bright  to  memory's  view 
As  when  both  life  and  hope  were  new? 
Can  the  fair  bride  forget  the  tone 
That  answers  fondly  to  her  own? 
Or  sister  from  remembrance  tear 
An  elder  brother's  constant  care  ? 


THE   EASTERN  STAR.  155 

Till  this  can  be  will  we  disclaim 
That  Masonry  is  but  a  name ; 
Till  this  can  be  we'll  chant  afar 
The  praises  of  the  Eastern  Star, 
That  led  the  wandering  shepherds  on 
Until,  at  the  awakening  dawn, 
It  rested,  like  a  royal  gem, 
Upon  the  brow  of  Bethlehem. 


TWENTY-ONE. 

AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED    TO    MY   NEPHEW,  S.  A. 

HERE  is  my  hand,  young  kinsman, 
Proffered  with  right  good  will ; 

And  this  my  wish, — that  coming  years 
Fall  round  thee  cloudless,  still. 

'Tis  something  to  enroll  the  Past, 

On  Memory's  golden  chart, 
In  characters  whose  hallowed  light 

Will  cheer  the  aged  heart. 

'Tis  this  ennobles  Manhood, — 

To  give  the  moments  back 
As  bright  and  fair  as  when  they  dawn 

On  Youth's  bewildering  track; 

To  let  each  passing  record  show 

A  purpose  strong  and  true, 
A  soul  above  temptation's  snares, 

A  tender  heart  and  true. 
156 


TWENTY-ONE. 

I  may  not  read  thy  future : 

And  yet  the  siren  Hope 
Spreads  out  before  my  longing  gaze 

A  pleasing  horoscope. 

No  shadow  falls  across  thy  path, 
E'en  to  life's  setting  sun, 

But  every  promise  seems  fulfilled 
Thou  gav'st  at  twenty-one. 


»4 


OLD    SETTLER'S    SONG. 

TUNE,   "WAY   DOWN   UPON   THE   SWANEE   RIVER.' 

RIGHT  here,  where  Indian  fires  were  lighted, 

Long,  long  ago ; 
Where  dusky  forms,  by  rum  incited, 

Danced  wildly  to  and  fro; 
We,  Old  Settlers,  come  to  greet  you, 

Proffer  heart  and  hand  ; 
Breathe,  too,  a  fervent  prayer  to  meet  you 

Yonder,  in  the  spirit-land. 

• 
Gone  tawny  chief,  whose  war-cry  sounded — 

All  but  his  name, 
That  far  and  near  has  been  resounded, 

Linked  with  our  rising  fame. 
Keokuk  !  with  pride  we  gather 

On  thy  golden  strand ; 
While  from  the  skies  a  loving  Father 

Blesses  our  sunset  land. 
158 


OLD  SETTLER'S  SONG,  159 

O  brothers  !  there  are  dear  old  faces 

Hid  'neath  the  mold; 
Forms  missing  from  their  wonted  places, 

Hands  we  have  clasped,  still  and  cold. 
While  the  scores  of  years  behind  us 

Tell  we're  hastening  on, 
And  that,  when  friends  return  to  find  us, 

Softly  may  fall,  "  They  are  gone." 

Here,  brothers,  where  our  noble  river 

Chants  through  its  waves, 
May  we  remain  till  called  to  sever, — 

Make  here  and  guard  our  graves. 
And  with  welcoming  shouts  we'll  greet  you 

When  you  reach  heaven's  strand  ; 
Fling  wide  the  golden  gates  and  meet  you, 

Brothers  in  the  Eden-land. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    PITTSBURG. 

AROUSE  thee,  my  muse  ! 

From  thy  lethargy  start, 
And  weave  into  words 

What  thou'lt  find  in  my  heart. 
Let  thy  harp  be  new-strung, 

And  obey  my  command, 
To  sing  me  a  song 

Of  my  own  native  land, — 
Of  the  clime  where  I  roamed, 

With  a  heart  light  and  free 
As  the  ripples  that  dance 

On  the  breast  of  the  sea ; 
Where  I  flitted  along 

With  my  innocent  dreams, 
As  free  as  the  breezes 

That  dimpled  our  streams. 

Where,  stretched  on  the  greensward, 

Grown  weary  of  play, 
160 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PITTS  BURG.  161 

I  slept  through  the  noon 

Of  the  long  summer's  day. 
Where  winter  brought  sledges 

And  mountains  of  snow  ; 
And  bridged  all  the  streams 

In  the  valley  below. 
Where  I  wished  some  good  fairy 

Would  give  me  the  power 
To  turn  to  a  zephyr, 

A  bird,  or  a  flower  ; 
A  sunbeam — a  dewdrop, 

A  sprite  free  and  wild ; 
It  mattered  not  what 

So  I  was  not  a  child. 

How  well  I  remember 

How  urchins,  in  crowds, 
Would  scale  some  tall  spire 

That  seemed  reaching  the  clouds, 
To  prove  to  the  timorous, 

Waiting  below, 
To  what  wonderful  heights 

Silken  bubbles  could  go  ! 
What  shouts  rent  the  air 

When  each  miniature  thing 
14* 


162 


Rode  off  on  the  wind, 
With  the  pride  of  a  king  ! 

What  wondrous  surmises 
By  all  were  begun, 

As  to  where  it  would  stop, — 
At  the  moon,  stars,  or  sun  ! 

Then  the  hill  that  surrounded 

The  "City  of  Smoke;" 
What  scenes  of  enchantment 

Its  vistas  awoke  ! 
The  meeting  of  waters, — 

The  trio  in  view  ; 
Their  jeweled  hands  clasping, — 

How  steadfast,  how  true, 
The  union  of  hearts, 

Whose  High-Priest  was  the  sun  ! 
Whose  vows  were,  "  Henceforward, 

Name,  purposes,  one/" 
What  wonder  that  picture 

In  memory  is  laid, 
Too  faithful  to  perish, 

Too  constant  to  fade. 

I've  a  brother  (God  bless  him  !) 
Whose  joy  used  to  be 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PITTSBURG.  163 

To  sit  in  the  twilight 

With  "Sis"  on  his  knee, 
And  tell  her  in  whispers 

Of  angels  of  light 
Floating  down  through  earth-shadows 

To  watch  her  by  night ; 
That  no  good  little  girl 

Need  be  ever  afraid, 
For  His  arms  were  about  her 

In  sunlight  and  shade  ; 
That  even  the  babe 

On  a  fond  mother's  breast 

»M9 

Nor  shudders,  nor  shrinks, 
When  He  calls  it  to  Rest. 

Years  have  fled,  and  now  "Sis" 

Has  to  matronhood  grown  ; 
While  the  "brother"  calls  sons 

In  ripe  manhood  his  own. 
But  those  lessons  of  Faith, 

His  sweet  pictures  of  Trust, 
Will  live  when  the  lips 

That  portrayed  them  are  dust. 
With  the  wealth  of  the  Indies 

Can  never  be  bought 
The  rapturous  bliss 

Of  each  beautiful  thought, 


1 64  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PITTSBURG. 

That  has  sprung  from  the  seed 
That  were  sown  in  Life's  spring, 

When  no  grief  bowed  my  spirit 
Nor  trammeled  its  wing. 

'Tis  a  chilling  remembrance, 

(It  frightens  me  yet,) 
The  day  I  trudged  homeward 

Distressingly  wet; 
Had  played  truant  from  school, 

And,  most  shocking  of  all, 
Had  taken  a  bath 

In  our  famous  canal. 
"  How  father  will  threaten  ! 

How  mother  will  scold  !" 
I  whispered,  while  trembling 

From  terror  and  cold. 
And  when  sister  came  in 

And  wet  garments  descried, 
"  Oh,  my  !"  I  returned  to  her 

"Sis,  you  must  hide." 

How  gently  and  softly 

In  bed  was  I  laid, 
•  And  never  was  told 

The  excuse  she  had  made ! 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PITTSBURG.  165 

Yet  that  night,  when  our  household 

All  quietly  slept, 
I  knew  that  my  mother  » 

Bent  o'er  me  and  wept. 
One  tender  hand  lifted 

My  pillow  of  down, 
The  other  moved  soft 

O'er  my  tresses  of  brown, 
While  lips  that  might  banish 

My  dream,  did  they  speak,    , 
Left  the  seal  of  their  pardon 

And  love  on  my  cheek. 

I  am  changed  from  the  truant 

Of  life's  early  spring  ; 
Am  no  longer  a  dreamer, 

A  light-hearted  thing. 
Yet,  could  Fancy  transport  me 

To  where  I  command, 
I'd  be  off  in  a  trice 

To  my  own  native  land. 
Would  fly  to  the  common, 

And  search  for  the  swing ; 
Would  clamber  the  hill-side, 

And  drink  at  the  spring; 

-^jr* 

On  the  meeting  of  waters 
Would  gaze  with  delight, 


1 66  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PITTSBURG. 

And  watch  the  balloons 
As  they  hurry  from  sight ; 

• 

Would  haste  to  the  homestead, — 

The  homestead — ah  me  ! 
Where  now  are  the  boughs 

Of  our  family  tree? 
No  father  to  welcome, 

No  mother  to  bless ; 
No  sister  to  shield, 

And  no  brother's  caress ; 
The  hearthstone  deserted, — 

The  love-light  all  fled  ; 
The  children  far  distant, 

The  parent  tree — dead. 
While  the  dreamer  of  old, 

With  her  lyre  in  her  hand, 
Essayeth  to  sing 

Of  her  dear,  native  land. 


WELCOME    TO    TEACHERS. 

READ     BEFORE     THE     LEE     COUNTY     INSTITUTE,     AT     FORT 
MADISON,  IOWA,  DECEMBER  2"J,    1873. 

SCULPTORS  of  the  finest  marble, 

Holders  of  our  plastic  youth, 
Sowers  of  such  seed  as  ripen 

Into  everlasting  truth, 
Shepherds  with  the  noblest  calling 

To  be  found  in  Life's  broad  way, 
Welcome !  and  may  Heaven  pour  blessings 

On  your  sacred  cause  to-day. 

Be  not  weary  of  welldoing  ! 

Help,  encourage,  guard,  and — wait; 
For  you  hold  in  trust  the  future 

Of  our  young  and  rising  State. 
Whether,  'mid  her  regal  sisters, 

She  the  queen  or  vassal  be, 
Ye  must  say,  for  ye  are  molding,  , 

Through  our  youth,  her  destiny. 

167 


1 68  WELCOME    TO    TEACHERS. 

Like  our  broad,  unbounded  prairies 

Be  your  efforts,  large  and  free ; 
Like  our  noble,  chainless  river, 

As  it  courses  to  the  sea, 
Be  your  words  to  thrill  their  spirits,- 

Words  that  rouse  the  daring  soul ; 
Words  that  wake  to  life  and  action 

Giant  thoughts  that  spurn  control. 

Ask  ye  not  a  higher  calling 

Than  the  work  ye  dare  to  do, 
For  remember  your  Redeemer 

Was  a  lowly  teacher,  too. 
And  upon  these  days  that  point  us 

Far  away  to  Bethlehem's  plain, 
Most  of  all  we  feel  a  Saviour 

Neither  lived  nor  died  in  vain. 

As  ye  thus  recall  tha»  lessons 

That  His  daily  walks  reveal, 
Imitate  His  self-denial, 

Imitate  His  holy  zeal; 
Then  your  years  of  patient  labor 

Will  return  you  golden  grain  ; 
Ripened  fields  will  bow  in  token 

That  ye  have  not  toiled  in  vain. 


CENTENNIAL. 

THE  scorching  August  rays  fell  fast, 

As  through  a  Western  village  passed 

A  youth,  who  bore,  through  sun  and  flame, 

A  banner  bearing  high  the  name, 

"Centennial." 

The  love  that  lit  his  lifted  eye 
Revenge  and  malice  might  defy, 
And  whether  met  by  young  or  old, 
His  answer  followed,  firm  and  bold, 

"Centennial." 

"Trust  not  Republicans,  my  son," 
An  ag£d  Copperhead  begun ; 
"They  lurk  along  the  mountain-side." 
But,  jubilant,  his  voice  replied, 

"Centennial!" 

"  Beware  of  '  Rebs,'  "  old  Croaker  cries ; 
"  Beware  of  traitors  in  disguise  !" 
ft  15  169 


I  yo  CENTENNIAL. 

But  opening  wide  his  arms  for  all, 
He  shouts  aloud  the  magic  call, 

"Centennial!" 

And  later,  when,  his  goal  attained, 
He  paused  where  sunset's  glory  waned, 
His  whisper  floated  to  the  stars 
That  hid  behind  those  crimson  bars, 

"Centennial." 

The  young  moon,  too,  too  coy  to  speak, 
Dropped  golden  kisses  on  his  cheek ; 
Then,  as  he  slept,  she  veiled  her  light 
And  murmured,  with  her  soft  "Good-night," 
"Centennial." 

And  thus,  by  Heaven's  own  touch  caressed, 
In  dreams  our  hero's  footfalls  pressed 
The  golden  streets,  where  patriots  heard, 
And  softly  breathed  our  Union-word, 

"  Centennial." 


EIGHTEEN    HUNDRED    AND    SIXTY- 
TWO. 

I'D  a  dream  last  night :   in  the  dim  twilight 

I  was  thrilled  by  a  strange  emotion  ; 
For  the  Old  Year  came,  with  his  withered  frame, 
And  led  me  on  by  a  torch  of  flame 

To  the  verge  of  the  pathless  ocean. 

In  our  onward  flight,  by  the  lurid  light 

Beamed  his  eye  with  a  spectral  brightness; 
And  he  shivered  so  in  the  drifting  snow, 
While  his  silvered  hairs  fluttered  to  and  fro 
O'er  a  forehead  of  ghostly  whiteness. 

Yet  he  made  no  moan  as  we  hurried  on, 

While  the  stars  bent,  pitying,  o'er  him ; 
Though  from  rock  and  dell  rose  a  parting  knell, 
And  the  weird  trees  whispered  a  low  farewell 
As  their  shadows  knelt  before  him. 

But  he  paused  with  me  by  the  grand  old  Sea, 
Where  the  Night  in  her  glory  slumbered  ; 

171 


172 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND   SIXTY-TWO. 


And  he  gathered  sand  from  the  golden  strand, 
And  said,  as  it  dropped  from  his  palsied  hand, 
"  'Tis  thus  that  my  hours  are  numbered. 

"  Yet  before  I  go  to  my  couch  of  snow 

I  will  sing,  though  my  voice  may  quiver; 
For  my  heart  is  brave  as  yon  dauntless  wave 
That  laughs  ere  it  leaps  to  its  ocean  grave, 
To  be  locked  in  its  depths  forever. 

"  But  no  thought  of  earth,  with  her  joy  and  mirth, 

Upon  memory's  page  is  beaming ; 
Not  her  sweet  spring  flowers,  or  her  summer  hours, 
Or  the  whispered  echoes  from  love-lit  bowers, 

Or  her  bright  autumnal  gleaming. 

"  For  these  strains  are  old,  you  have  heard  them  told 

By  the  years  that  have  dawned  and  perished ; 
And  the  witching  ways  of  their  smiling  Mays, 
And  their  golden,  dreamy  October  days, 
Are  like  those  I  once  fondly  cherished. 

"  So  my  voice  shall  sweep  to  the  boundless  deep, 
Far  down  'neath  the  wild  waves  hoary, 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND   SIXTY-TWO. 

That  madly  tore  from  their  glittering  floor 
The  magic  chain,  lest  the  listening  shore 
Might  learn  of  their  viewless  glory. 


"  Then  list  to  me,  and  I'll  sing  to  thee 

Of  the  mystic  depths  where  I've  wandered  free  ; 

Of  the  coral  halls  and  the  diamond  bed 

Where  old  Neptune  sits  with  his  pale-faced  dead ; 

Of  the  fairy  grottoes  of  gold  and  pearl, 

That  the  sea-nymphs  weave  for  each  fair  young  girl 

That  the  storm-king  bears  from  the  ocean's  crest 

And  lays,  in  her  beauty,  down  to  rest. 

"  Oh,  wonderful  things  have  I  seen  below, 

Where  the  bright  fern  clings  and  the  sea-flowers  blow ; 

Where  the  mermaids  gather  and  slyly  hide 

Their  red-lipped  shells  from  the  amorous  tide ; 

Where  shattered  wrecks,  with  their  gold-heaped  spars, 

On  the  pebbles  gleam  like  a  heaven  of  stars. 

"  There  is  one  bright  spot  that  I  love  to  scan: 
'Tis  the  emerald  couch  of  a  valiant  man, 
Whom  the  breakers'  roar  nor  the  flame-lit  sky, 
Nor  the  prayers  of  kindred,  could  urge  to  fly. 


1 74     EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SIXTY- TWO. 

'  The  ship's  on  fire  !'  like  a  funeral  knell 

On  the  hearts  of  that  startled  crew  it  fell ; 

And  strong  men  shook,  as  the  lurid  glare 

On  the  waters  gleamed  like  a  hideous  stare  ; 

And  women  shrieked,  as  with  fiendish  sound 

The  fiery  serpents  hemmed  them  round, 

And  hissed  in  glee  as  their  fangs  were  pressed 

Through  the  babes  that  slept  on  their  mothers'  breast. 

But  the  brave  commander,  with  dauntless  mien, 

At  the  helm  of  the  sinking  ship  was  seen  ; 

And  when  maddened  flames  through  the  crackling  shrouds 

And  the  hot  air  leaped  till  they  licked  the  clouds, 

When  the  whirlwind  force  of  the  tempest's  breath 

Swept  the  tottering  wreck  in  the  jaws  of  death, 

With  the  firm,  strong  grasp  of  an  iron  will 

He  clung  to  the  mast,  and  he  clings  there  still. 

"The  beautiful  maidens  adown  the  main 
Have  tried  to  untwine  his  grasp  in  vain ; 
They  made  him  a  couch  of  the  greenest  moss 
And  the  snow-white  down  of  the  albatross ; 
And  they  placed  at  the  head,  for  a  funeral  stone, 
The  shell  that  could  utter  the  softest  moan  ; 
t  And  they  tried  to  melt  in  their  gentle  rigid 
The  icy  touch  of  those  fingers  cold. 
But  they  found  it  vain  ;  so  with  tender  care 
They  wove  a  pillow  of  sea-weeds  there, 


175 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SIXTY-TWO. 
\ 

And,  circling  around  it,  these  matchless  girls 
Knelt  as  they  severed  their  own  bright  curls, 
And  tossed  them  down  till  their  sheen  was  pressed 
By  the  brave  man's  feet  they  had  wooed  to  rest. 
And  'tis  thus  he  stands,  like  a  warrior  bold, 
Chained  to  the  wreck  with  his  iron  hold. 


"And  far  away,  where  the  billows  moan 

In  a  sadder  strain  and  with  softer  tone, 

I  have  seen,  in  its  infant  beauty,  lay 

A  bright  creation  of  human  clay, 

As  pure  its  cheek  and  its  brow  as  fair 

As  dews  from  heaven  or  the  snow-flakes  are ; 

And  the  dimpled  hands  round  that  cherub  face 

Were  fondly  clasped  in  a  long  embrace, 

While  the  sleep  that  closed  its  unconscious  eye 

Grew  deep  'neath  the  waves'  soft  lullaby. 

A  lonesome  thing  seemed  that  babe  to  me, 

Rocked  in  the  arms  of  the  great,  broad  sea ; 

A  wee,  small  thing  to  have  come  so  far 

All  by  itself,  without  spot  or  scar ; 

A  frail,  weak  thing,  with  no  hand  to  guide 

Such  tender  feet  down  the  rugged  tide. 

Yet  I  know  when  they  launched  that  unguided  barge 

The  void  in  its  mother's  heart  seemed  large 


176      EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SIXTY- TWO. 

As  the  ocean's  self,  and  her  grief  as  wild 
As  the  breakers  dashing  above  her  child. 


"  But  my  strain  must  cease  : — through  the  starlight  clear 

I  have  heard  the  steps  of  the  coming  Year ; 

My  pulses  flutter,  my  eye  grows  dim, 

Yet  once  I  was  merry  and  strong  like  him. 

Oh,  my  brighter  days  ! — they  are  crowding  back : 

I  am  gazing  now  on  Spring's  rosy  track, 

Till  the  Summer  comes  with  her  broad,  bright  smile, 

And  the  Autumn  follows  her  steps  the  while. 

But  they  vanish  now, — yes,  they  all  have  flown, 

And  left  me  here,  with  the  Night,  alone. 

I'm  a  frail  old  man, — all  my  bright  dreams  sped, 

My  fond  hopes  crushed,  and  my  loved  ones  dead. 

Well,  my  snow-couch  waits  me, — yon  phantom  bell 

Is  tolling  slowly  my  parting  knell. 

I  will  rest  me  here  where  the  wild  waves  sweep : — 

Good-night,  fair  Earth,  I — must — sink — to — sleep." 


So  the  Old  Year  slept,  and  the  New  Year  leaped 

From  the  clouds  to  the  moaning  billow; 
And  he  bade  it  stand  on  the  golden  strand, 
And  guide  his  steps  with  its  jeweled  hand 
To  the  aged  champion's  pillow. 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SIXTY-TIW.      177 

And  the  New  Year  bowed,  while  the  starry  crowd 

That  had  thronged  the  verge  of  even 
Marked  his  earnest  gaze,  and  in  hymns  of  praise 
They  told  the  birth  of  this  Prince  of  Days 

To  the  countless  hosts  of  heaven. 

And  the  clouds  drew  up,  from  their  magic  cup, 

The  tears  that  each  gentle  flower 
Had  wept  unseen  when  the  earth  was  green, 
And  faithless  zephyrs,  with  flattering  mien, 

Went  wooing  from  bower  to  bower. 

And  this  treasured  dew,  when  the  year  was  new, 

They  poured  from  their  crystal  chalice, 
Till  it  touched  his  brow,  though  I  scarce  knew  how, 
Nor  yet  who  had  breathed  the  baptismal  vow 
That  rang  through  his  midnight  palace. 

Then  I  saw  him  fly  through  the  sapphire  sky, 

Earth's  spells  and  her  fetters  scorning, 
Till  he  sat  alone  where  his  sire  had  flown, 
A  crowned  king  on  his  royal  throne : — 

And  when  I  awoke — it  was  morning. 


H* 


ANGEL    WHISPERS. 

DEDICATED   TO   MY   SISTER,  MRS.  SARAH   A.  AYRES. 

ONE  beautiful  evening  in  summer, 

Ere  the  sunbeams  had  vanished  from  sight, 

When  they  stooped  down  to  kiss  the  green  prairies, 
And  bid  all  the  flowers  "Good-night"  ; 

When  the  last  lingering  rays  that  descended 

Fell  full  in  the  waterfall's  face, 
And  caught  the  bright  ripples,  while  dancing, 

To  give  them  a  parting  embrace ; 

Sad  and  doubting  I  sat  by  the  brook-side, 

And  gazed  on  expiring  Day, 
Until  Thought  fell  asleep  in  my  bosom 

And  Memory  flew  softly  away. 

The  clouds  that  hung  lightly  above  me 

Wore  colors  of  beauty  untold  : 
Displaying,  in  exquisite  blending, 

Their  crimson  and  purple  and  gold. 
178 


ANGEL   WHISPERS.  179 

The  Breeze  had  forgotten  its  murmur, 

The  Zephyr  had  banished  its  sigh, 
And  echoes  of  heavenly  anthems 

Seemed  dropping  from  harps  in  the  sky. 

Anon  came  the  dim,  dreamy  twilight 

To  bend  o'er  our  wild-flower  track ; 
For,  like  truants,  the  sunbeams  strayed  earthward, 

While  darkness  kept  drawing  them  back. 

Soon  the  long,  waving  grass  of  the  meadow, 

The  waterfall  sparkling  and  bright, 
The  trees  and  the  church  on  the  hill-side, 

Were  hid  by  the  curtain  of  Night. 

Then  I  sighed,  in  the  fullness  of  sadness, 
To  think  that  the  sunbeams  had  died, 

Until  white  pinions  fluttered  around  me, 
And  low  whispers  woke  at  my  side : 

"  The  gloom  that  the  Night  casts  o'er  nature 

The  splendor  of  Day  ever  mars, 
But  'tis  only  the  darkness,  O  mortal ! 

Can  bring  out  the  light  of  the  stars. 


l8o  ANGEL   WHISPERS. 

"  The  soul,  like  the  heavens  above  thee, 
Has  its  seasons  of  sunlight  and  gloom; 

And  often  the  mental  horizon 

Is  clouded  by  thoughts  of  the  tomb. 

"  When  the  beams  of  Prosperity  gladden, 

Our  troubles  are  laid  in  the  dust ; 
And  'tis  only  Adversity's  mantle 

Can  bring  out  the  starlight  of  Trust. 

"Go  !  learn  of  this  emblem  a  lesson, — 
Let  Faith  find  a  home  in  thy  breast, 

And  Contentment  will  follow  her  footsteps, 
And  sing  all  repinings  to  rest." 

There  was  silence,— -I  gazed  all  around  me 
For  the  source  of  those  whispers  of  love ; 

But  naught  met  my  wandering  vision 
Save  the  stars  looking  down  from  above. 

Since  then,  when  earth-shadows  enfold  me, 
New  strength  to  my  spirit  is  given  ; 

For  I  know  it  is  only  the  darkness 
Can  bring  out  the  starlight  of  heaven. 


MY    FATHER'S    BJRTHDAY. 

OCTOBER  15,   1859. 

IT  is  dreamy,  soft  October, 

And  there's  brightness  everywhere ; 
From  the  golden  sheaves  of  sunlight 

Gleaming  in  broad  fields  of  air, 
To  the  sparkling,  dancing  ripples 

That  go  singing  to  the  shore, 
Breathing  low,  to  drooping  branches, 

"Sweet  October's  come  once  more." 

Hallowed  month  !   thy  lights  and  shadows 

Waft  me  back  to  other  years ; 
Thou  hast  led  me  to  the  greensward 

Where  my  childhood's  home  appears. 
And  I  pause,  expectant,  listening 

For  a  footfall  as  of  yore ; 
For  the  tender  words  of  welcome 

I  shall  hear  on  earth  no  more. 

16  181 


1 8  2  MY  FA  THER1  S  BIR  THDA  Y. 

Oh,  he  loved  thee,  rare  October, 

With  thy  mellow,  dreamy  skies  ! 
And  he  called  thy  breezy  murmurs 

Nature's  soothing  lullabies 
To  the  shivering,  palsied  blossoms 

That  she  gathered  to  her  breast, 
Spreading  o'er  them  leaves  of  scarlet, 

That  the  weary  things  might  rest. 

Ne'er  till  now,  sweet  Psalm  of  Autumn, 

Heard  I  thy  familiar  strain, 
But  I  heard  his  voice,  in  chorus, 

Chant  a  jubilant  refrain. 
Mine  the  loss, — the  mist  that  gathers 

Veils  thy  smiles  but  from  my  eyes, 
For  I  know  that  he  is  keeping 

This  October  in  the  skies. 

Has  his  chainless  spirit  wandered 

From  the  realms  of  perfect  day, 
Through  earth's  shades  and  damps  to  greet  me 

Upon  this,  his  natal  day  ? 
Oh,  it  is  not  far  for  loved  ones 

When  the  silken  cord  is  riven, 
For  they  only  close  their  eyelids 

To  re-open  them  in  heaven. 


MY  FA  THER'S  BIR  THDA  Y.  1 83 

"  Lift  me  up  into  the  twilight ;" 

When  my  failing  sight  grows  dim, 
May  the  light  of  Faith  be  near  me, 

As  heaven's  twilight  was  to  him  ! 
When  I've  quaffed  the  latest  portion 

Of  this  life's  mysterious  cup, 
May  his  soul  be  near,  in  waiting, 

To  enfold  and  lift  me  up  ! 


THE    END    OF    THE    RAINBOW. 

WRITTEN    FOR   LITTLE    ETTA   AYRES. 

"  COME,  Nellie  !"  I  cried,  on  a  clear  April  day, 
When  the  sunbeams  kept  kissing  the  shadows  away, 
"  The  rainbow  has  lit  on  the  hill,  and,  you  know, 
We  might  find  heaps  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  bow." 

We  were  young,  foolish  children,  sweet  Nellie  and  I, 
And  we  thought  that  the  hill-top  was  close  to  the  sky ; 
Believed,  too,  because  we  were  told  it  was  so, 
We  should  find  "lots"  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  bow. 

So  onward  we  trudged,  over  meadows  of  green, 
Whose  clover-blooms  brightened  their  emerald  sheen ; 
Then  down  from  the  hill  to  the  valley  below, 
And  gazed  all  around  for  the  end  of  the  bow. 

"  Not  here  !"  I  said,  sadly;  but  Nellie  replied, 
"  It  is  hid  in  yon  grass  by  the  waterfall's  side ; 
Run  fast !  if  you  move  o'er  the  pebbles  so  slow, 

I'm  sure  I'll  be  first  at  the  end  of  the  bow." 
184 


THE  END    OF  THE   RAINBOW.  185 

We  found  not  the  treasures  we  searched  for  till  night, 
But  Nellie,  the  sweet,  fragile  blossom,  was  right ; 
From  this  valley  of  shades  she  was  first  called  to  go 
To  the  clime  where  is  resting  the  end  of  the  bow. 

Where  rainbows  of  glory  eternally  play, 
Our  Nellie  is  singing  with  seraphs  to-day  ; 
And  her  beautiful  pinions  are  folded,  I  know, 
In  the  fullness  of  joy  at  the  end  of  the  bow. 


1 6* 


THE    DYING    SOLDIER. 

WITH  forehead  throbbing  from  pain, 

With  lips  that  were  burning  and  dry, 
A  soldier  lay,  between  heaps  of  slain, 

By  his  comrades  left  to  die. 
Moans  !  moans  !  moans  ! 

The  air  reeled,  sick  as  they  fell, 
Yet  still  he  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  War," 

In  the  tone  of  a  funeral  knell. 

"  Fight !  fight!  fight! 

Through  the  summer's  fervid  heat ; 
And  fight !  fight !  fight ! 

'Mid  rain  and  snow  and  sleet. 
Scarcely  an  hour  to  rest, 

Scarcely  an  hour  to  pray, 
Until,  like  me,  a  comrade  falls 

In  the  midst  of  the  deadly  fray. 

"  March  !  march  !  march  ! 

Till  the  limbs  are  numb  and  sore ; 
186 


THE   DYING  SOLDIER.  187 

And  march  !  march  !  march  ! 

Till  the  feet  are  bathed  in  gore. 
Grown  so  athirst  for  blood 

That,  while  halting,  by  woods  or  streams, 
We  fall  asleep  to  meet  our  foes, 

And  shoot  them  down  in  our  dreams. 


"  On  !  on  !  on  ! 

Brave  comrades,  with  purpose  true  ! 
Your  steadfast  souls  must  never  swerve 

From  the  work  ye  dare  to  do. 
For  the  Union  ye  must  defend, — 

Ay  !  barter  your  lives  to  save, — 
Now  stands,  like  a  reeling,  tottering  ship, 

On  the  brink  of  a  yawning  grave. 

"  Peace !  peace  !  peace  ! 

O  God  !  will  it  never  come  ? 
I  can  almost  hear  that  pleading  cry 

From  lips  now  pale  and  dumb  ; 
Can  almost  catch  the  words, 

As  they  echo,  near  and  far, 
Through  the  widow's  plaint  and  the  orphan's  wail, 

'  We  have  had  enough  of  War  !' 


1 88  THE   DYING   SOLDIER. 

"Home!  home!  home! 

What  memories  o'er  me  steal ! 
It  were  sweet  to  die  with  the  loved  ones  there, 

In  the  room  where  we  used  to  kneel 
And  offer  our  evening  prayer 

For  those  who  had  gone  to  fight ; 
Ah  me  !  what  a  bitter  time  was  that 

When  I  breathed  a  sad  '  Good-night !' 

"  I  think  that  I  tasted  all 

The  wormwood  in  sorrow's  cup, 
When  Mary  covered  her  streaming  eyes 

And  held  the  baby  up, — 
When  mother,  so  old  and  frail, 

Came  in  for  a  parting  kiss, 
And  prayed  we  might  meet  in  a  better  world, 

If  not  again  in  this. 

"  Home  !  home  !  home  ! 

Oh,  would  they  were  with  me  here  ! 
To  press  their  lips  to  my  burning  cheeks, 

Or  dew  them  with  a  tear. 
Fond  heart !  it  is  hard  to  go 

When  life  seems  so  full  of  joy  ! 
Who  will  shield  my  wife  and  the  aged  one, 

And  my  helpless  baby  boy?" 


THE  DYING   SOLDIER. 

With  forehead  throbbing  from  pain, 

With  lips  that  were  fevered  and  dry, 
A  soldier  lay,  between  heaps  of  slain, 

By  his  comrades  left  to  die. 
The  struggle — the  fight  was  o'er; 

His  soul,  on  that  summer's  even, 
Had  floated  off  from  the  field  of  blood, 

To  Home  and  Peace  and  Heaven. 


189 


CALL    ME    THINE    OWN. 

CALL  me  thine  own,  dearest, 

Call  me  thine  own ; 
Whisper  it  over 

In  love's  gentlest  tone. 
Murmur  it  oft 

In  the  stillness  of  night ; 
Tenderly  breathe  it 

At  morn's  early  light. 
Naught  in  the  wide  world 

Can  thrill  like  thy  tone ; 
Then  call  me  thine  own,  dearest, 

Call  me  thine  own. 

Call  me  thine  own,  love ; 

Far  dearer  to  me 
Are  such  words  than  bright  gems 

From  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
Like  music  the  sweetest, 

Oft  wakened  before, 
My  heart  drinks  them  in, 

And  keeps  thirsting  for  more. 
190 


CALL  ME    THINE    OWN, 

Oh,  the  purest  of  joy 

This  fond  heart  e'er  has  known, 
Has  been  born  of  this  thought, — 

Thou  hast  called  me  thine  own. 

Then  call  me  thine  own,  dear ; 

Embalmed  with  thy  breath, 
Those  accents  will  linger 

To  cheer  me  till  death. 
Whether  severed  by  fate 

From  the  dearest  and  best, 
Or,  in  rapture  untold, 

I  recline  on  thy  breast, 
Still,  still  round  my  path 

Let  this  blessing  be  thrown, — 
That  thou  hast,  dost,  and  ever  wilt, 

Call  me  thine  own. 


191 


GOD'S    CANDLE. 

DEDICATED   TO   MRS.  ALICE    BALDWIN,  OF    BURLINGTON, 
IOWA,  THE  "LITTLE    GIRL"  OF   YORE. 

"On,  isn't  it  pretty?"  a  little  girl  cried, 

With  her  bright  eyes  upturned,  as  she  stood  by  my  side. 

"It  is  just  like  the  moon  that  we  both  used  to  see 

When  Addie  and  I  sat  on  grandfather's  knee. 

I  wonder,"  she  said,  as  I  gave  her  a  kiss, 

"If  God  looked  at  that  when  He  went  to  make  this." 

I  brushed  from  her  forehead  a  tiny,  stray  curl, 
And  pressed  to  my  bosom  the  dear  little  girl ; 
Then  told  her  the  moon  was  the  same  she  had  seen 
Ere  she  crossed  the  great  rivers  and  prairies  of  green. 
"Then  why,"  she  said,  quickly,  appearing  to  doubt, 
"Does  it  sometimes  shine   brightly  and  sometimes  go 
out?" 

She  paused,  mused  a  moment,  then,  turning  to  me, 
And  clapping  her  hands  in  her  innocent  glee, 
192 


GOD'S   CANDLE. 


193 


"I  know  now"  she  answered,  in  tones  of  delight: 
"  God's  candle  !     He  carries  it  with  Him  at  night ; 
He  takes  it  through  heaven  wherever  He  goes, 
And  that's  why  it  moves  through  the  sky,  I  suppose. 

"And  I  think  I  can  guess  why  He  brought  it  to-night, 
And  why  He  is  looking  at  me  by  its  light : 
At  grandfather's  knee  every  evening  I  pray, 
And  He  thinks  I'll  forget  it  because  I'm  away." 

Then,  kneeling,  she  murmured  the  prayer  she  was  taught, 

And  added,  "  Dear  Father,  I  have  not  forgot, 

But  please  take  Thy  lamp  while  I'm  praying  to  Thee, 

And  hold  it  for  Addie,  that  she,  too,  may  see." 

I  turned  to  the  sky  as  the  prayer  upward  flew : 

A  cloud  hid  the  face  of  the  Night  Queen-  from  view. 

The  little  one  rose,  as  she  said,  with  a  smile, 

"  I  knew  He  would  hold  it  for  Addie  awhile." 


AWAY! 

AWAY,  away  !  thou  kneel'st  in  vain, 

I  will  not  hear  thy  plea ; 
'Tis  worse  than  useless,  fawning  one, 

To  bend  the  knee  to  me  ! 
Too  late,  too  late  those  earnest  vows 

Are  offered  at  love's  shrine; 
Though  flowing  from  thy  heart,  they  wake 

No  answering  tone  in  mine. 

Away,  away !  I  loved  thee  once 

With  all  a  woman's  soul ; 
Thou  read'st  it  in  the  varying  blush 

That  would  not  brook  control. 
And  thou  didst  smile  a  strange,  cold  smile 

Whene'er  our  glances  met 
That  almost  crushed  my  young  life  out, — 

Think'st  thou  I  can  forget? 

Away,  away  !  I  spurn  thee  now, 
For  time  has  burst  the  spell ; 
194 


A  WA  Y! 

Thou  knowest  that  I  loved  thee  once, 
"  Not  wisely,  but  too  well." 

Hadst  thou  not  deemed  me  all  too  weak 
To  clasp  to  thy  proud  breast, 

Freely  would  I  have  given  all 
Affection's  mines  possessed. 

Away,  away  !  thou  need'st  not  speak 

To  the  once  "thoughtless  girl;" 
Thy  words,  if  uttered,  would  but  fall 

As  rain-drops  upon  pearl. 
Reason  has  triumphed,  and  'twould  seem 

But  mockery  to  begin 
To  woo  and  flatter  when  remains 

The  shade  of  what  has  been. 

Away,  away  !  another's  glance 

Has  fondly  met  my  own  ; 
Another's  voice  has  thrilled  my  frame 

With  its  low,  witching  tone  ; 
Another's  lips  have  trembled  with 

The  hopes  they  dared  confess  ; 
Another  for  my  hand  has  sued, 

And  I  have  answered  "Yes." 


195 


PARTING  SONG. 

SUNG    BY   THE    GRADUATING   CLASS    OF    THE   KEOKUK   HIGH 
SCHOOL,  MAY   3,   1872. 

OUR  farewell  must  to-day  be  spoken, 

The  time  draws  near  when  we  must  part, 
Yet  Friendship  holds  our  chain  unbroken, 

And  clasps  the  links  that  bind  each  heart. 
And  ever,  in  the  years  before  us, 

Will  Memory  guard  with  jealous  care  ' 
The  golden  hours  that  floated  o'er  us 

When  youth  flew  by  with  visions  fair. 

While  o'er  the  Past  our  thoughts  are  yearning, 

Our  deepest  gratitude  is  due 
To  him  who,  all  our  needs  discerning, 

Has  kept  life's  highest  aims  in  view. 
The  guiding  hand  so  ready  ever 

To  point  our  feet  to  Wisdom's  way, 
The  voice  that  strengthened  each  endeavor, 

We  leave  with  fond  regret  to-day. 
196 


9       PARTING  SONG. 

And  ere  we  go  take  our  places 

'Mid  changing  scenes  on  earth's  broad  mart, 
Love  stamps  these  dear  familiar  faces 

In  deathless  lines  on  every  heart. 
Though  future  joys  be  crushed  by  sorrow, 

Though  hopes  be  changed  to  doubts  and  fears, 
Undimmed  throughout  our  life's  To-morrow 

Will  gleam  the  light  of  other  years. 


197 


THE  WORLD  WANTS  WOMEN. 

THE  world  wants  women,  brave,  reliant,  true, 

Such  as  will  help  the  common  good  along, — 
Workers,  to  keep  life's  highest  aims  in  view, 

Uphold  the  Right  and  strive  to  crush  the  Wrong. 
Women  to  lift  their  erring  sisters  up, 

When,  by  the  wayside,  they  may  chance  to  fall ; 
Women  with  outstretched  hands  to  snatch  the  cup 

From  manhood's  lips,  and  weaken  thus  his  thrall. 

The  world  wants  mothers,  earnest  hearts  that  feel 

True  sympathy  for  childhood's  hopes  and  fears; 
Lives  that  their  wealth  of  tenderness  reveal 

Through  all  the  changes  of  the  circling  years. 
Whether,  with  steadfast  feet,  the  children  climb 

Life's  rugged  paths,  or  falter  on  the  track, 
They  need  the  magnet,  wondrous  and  sublime, 

Of  mother-love  to  hold  or  draw  them  back. 

The  world  wants  daughters;  when  the  tottering  feet, 
The  palsied  limbs,  declare  strength,  vigor  flown, 
198 


THE   WORLD   WANTS  WOMEN.  199 

When  aged  eyes  are  dimming,  it  is  sweet 
To  know  the  pilgrims  journey  not  alone, — 

That  willing  hands  are  near  to  gently  guide ; 
That  loving  hearts  will  cheer  them  to  the  vale ; 

That  tender  voices,  as  they  near  the  tide, 
Will  whisper  of  the  Love  that  cannot  fail. 

The  world  wants  sisters,  gentle,  faithful,  pure, 

Stronger  in  purpose  than  the  hosts  of  sin  ; 
Sisters  to  warn,  encourage,  and  allure 

Those  who  might  else  be  led  to  "enter  in." 
Oh,  turn  ye,  mothers,  sisters,  daughters,  turn 

From  Fashion's  giddy  vortex  ere  too  late, 
Strive  the  true  aim  of  Womanhood  to  learn, 

And  cease  to  charge  your  blighted  hopes  to  Fate. 


MAYMIE. 

AGED    TEN   YEARS. 

WHO  that  has  seen  some  household  idol  fade 

Like  opening  bud  before  the  chilling  blast, 
Can  faintly  know  His  sufferings  when  He  said, 

"  If  Thou  wilt,  Father,  let  this  cup  be  passed." 
And  whosoever,  when  that  life  hath  fled, 

Can  bow  submissively  and  drain  the  cup, 
And  cry,  "Thy  will  be  done,"  though  Hope  has  fled, 

Has  faith  enough  through  life  to  bear  her  up. 

I  knelt  beside  her  and,  despairing,  prayed  ; 

Her  little,  pleading  voice  caught  up  the  strain  : 
"  Oh,  spare  me,  Father,  for  her  sake,"  she  said  ; 

"  Give  me  back  life  and  strength  and  love  again  !" 
"  Or  if,  my  Father,  it  seems  best  to  Thee 

From  future  woe  to  take  my  treasured  one, 
Do  as  Thou  wilt,  for  Thou  alone  canst  see : 

Give  me  but  faith  to  cry,  'Thy  will  be  done  !'  " 


201 

I  rose  and  kissed  her  while  she  faintly  smiled ; 

Her  breath  grew  shorter  and  her  pulse  beat  low  ; 
"The  morning  dawneth  ;  'tis  thy  birthday,  child  ! 

God  gave  thee  to  me  just  ten  years  ago. 
Thy  father  laid  thee  in  these  waiting  arms 

Amid  the  shadows  of  the  morning  dim, 
And  now,  with  all  thy  childhood's  added  charms, 

I  yield,  and  give  thee  back  to  God  and  him." 

The  dying  grasp  was  tightened  round  my  own, 

As  if  to  bear  me  with  her  in  her  flight ; 
"  Thou'rt  going,  love,"  I  said,  "but  not  alone: 

He  bears  thee  upward  to  the  world  of  light. 
Thy  mother's  voice  shall  be  the  last  on  earth 

To  soothe  her  darling  ere  the  cord  is  riven, 
And,  at  thy  spirit's  new  and  glorious  birth, 

Thy  father's  first  to  welcome  thee  to  heaven." 

Thus  she  went  from  us  in  the  morning  gray, 
Her  earthly  and  her  heavenly  birthday  one; 

Leaving  behind  her  only  pulseless  clay, 

And  a  crushed  heart  to  cry,  "Thy  will  be  done." 

We  robed  her,  as  she  said,  in  spotless  white, 
And  lifted  grandma  for  a  parting  kiss ; 

Then  bore  the  lovely  burden  from  her  sight 

And  bade  the  children  come.     How  they  would  miss 
i* 


202  MA  YMIE. 

The  kindling  eye,  the  earnest,  welcoming  voice, 

The  hand's  warm  pressure,  and  the  beaming  smile  ! 
But  they  all  gathered  there,  both  girls  and  boys, 

And  as  they  stood  around,  and  gazed,  the  while, 
I  bade  them  sing  the  songs  she  loved  so  well : 

Their  Sabbath  greetings  and  their  closing  lays ; 
And.  as  their  trembling  accents  rose  and  fell, 

I  felt  an  angel  voice  had  joined  their  praise. 

'Twas  her  delight  in  concert  thus  to  meet 

The  children  in  the  Sabbath  morning's  glow; 
To  sit  and  learn  with  them  the  story  sweet 

How  Jesus  came  to  bless  them  here  below. 
And  can  it  be  that  never,  never  more, 

Her  joyful  voice  will  join  the  sacred  songs? 
That  not  till  I  have  reached  the  shining  shore 

My  ear  will  catch  the  tone  for  which  it  longs? 

Yet  hush  !  sad  heart !  my  loss  is  her  release  ! 

What  is  the  school  below  to  that  above  ? 
How  will  our  Sabbaths  here  compare  in  peace 

With  that  serener  day  that  dawns  above  ? 
What  melody,  what  cadence  half  so  sweet 

As  swells  when  angel-fingers  sweep  the  strings? 
What  prayers,  with  such  adoring  love  replete, 

As  when  the  seraphs  bow  with  folded  wings? 


MA  YMIE.  203 

While  here,  she  loved  each  prophet's  life  to  trace, 

And  tell  of  all  the  trials  they  had  passed ; 
But  there,  she  sits  with  Moses,  face  to  face, 

In  the  fair  Canaan  that  was  his  at  last. 
And  father  Abraham  will  not  pass  her  by : 

I  thought  of  Isaac  all  the  night  she  died, 
And  asked,  as  searchingly  I  turned  my  eye, 

If  aught  for  my  pet  lamb  might  be  supplied. 

O  holy  Samuel,  guide  her  o'er  the  strands, 

And  through  the  Heavenly  Temple,  large  and  fair, 
Because  the  picture  of  thy  clasped  hands 

In  early  childhood  bowed  her  soul  in  prayer. 
Show  her  where  Daniel  sits, — where  David  sings, 

In  loftier  measure,  more  seraphic  Psalms, 
Then  lead  her  gently  to  the  King  of  kings, 

Who  bade  His  children  here  to  "  Feed  His  lambs." 

And,  mother  Mary,  I  must  plead  with  thee 

Sometimes  to  clasp  her  to  thy  loving  breast ; 
Else  her  fond,  yearning  heart  will  long  for  me, 

Though  heaven  be  gained  and  all  its  joys  possessed. 
Not  to  the  Virgin  Mary  do  I  kneel ; 

Not  to  the  holy  saint  my  numbers  flow ; 
But  to  the  MOTHER,  whose  true  heart  can  feel, 

Because  it  once  endured  a  kindred  woe. 


204  MA  Y 

And,  Maymie,  when  thy  golden  harp  is  tried, 

When  strains  of  love  fall  sweetly  from  thy  tongue, 
Fold  thy  white  wings,  and  at  thy  Saviour's  side 

Let  the  wild  yearnings  of  thy  heart  be  sung. 
Kneel,  darling,  kneel,  and  ask  for  what  thou  wilt ; 

I  know  the  wish  e'en  angels  may  not  smother : 
Not  to  be  made  more  free  from  sin  and  guilt, 

But  that  thy  mission  be  to  guard  thy  mother. 

And  if  my  spirit  falter  ere  this  cup 

Of  bitterness  be  drained — this  large  supply, 
Reach  down  thy  little  hands  and  hold  me  up, 

Else  I  must  wholly  sink,  and,  helpless,  die. 
Yes,  darling,  pray  !  thy  earnest  voice  can  plead 

That  on  thy  viewless  pinions  thou  may'st  come, 
To  hover  near,  in  this  my  greatest  need, 

And  then  be  near,  at  last,  to  guide  me  home. 

Oh  !  man  may  climb  the  topmost  round  of  fame, 

And  smile  in  triumph  on  the  rocky  steep ; 
In  characters  of  blood  may  write  his  name, 

While  woman's  portion  is  to  watch  and  weep. 
Yet  who  would  barter  all  the  love  that  glows 

With  quenchless  fervor  in  a  mother's  heart, 
E'en  though  that  love  be  bought  with  anguish-throes, 

For  all  that  man  can  reach  or  wealth  impart? 


MA  YMIE, 


205 


And  even  though,  like  mine,  her  hopes  be  crushed, 

Her  blossom  blighted  and  her  day-star  fled, 
Though  the  glad  voice  is  here  forever  hushed, 

And  the  sweet  lips  that  sang  all  cold  and  dead, — 
'Tis  not  in  hopeless  grief  her  head  is  bowed, 

'Tis  not  in  wild  despair  she  meets  His  will ; 
For,  mounting  past  the  coffin  and  the  shroud, 

Her  soul  is  mother  of  an  angel  still. 

How  saintly  was  the  look  her  features  wore 

Before  I  saw  the  coffin-lid  go  down  ! 
That  marble  brow,  I  kissed  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  left  my  tears  among  her  tresses  brown. 
That  cold,  cold  cheek  !     Those  lips,  so  pale  and  still, 

Would  never  more,  unto  mine  own  be  pressed  ; 
Those  little  hands,  so  quick  to  do  my  will, 

Were  crossed  and  quiet  on  a  silent  breast. 

Oh  !  be  ye  guarded  what  ye  do  or  say 
.  Before  a  mother  when  her  child  is  dead  ; 
Move  with  hushed  tread  beside  the  pulseless  clay, 

And  in  low  whispers  let  your  words  be  said. 
Remember  of  her  life  it  was  a  part ; 

Remember  it  was  nourished  at  her  breast ; 
That  she  would  guard  it  still  from  sudden  start, 

The  ringing  footfall,  or  untimely  jest. 
18 


206  MA  YMIE. 

We  bore  her  back  to  the  old  home  she  left 

With  strange  reluctance  only  months  before ; 
How  doubly  there  my  poor  heart  seemed  bereft 

To  miss  her  smiling  welcome  at  the  door  ! 
The  constant  feet  that  used  to  stand  and  wait 

To  welcome  me  were  gone :  I  could  not  see 
Her  form  come  bounding  through  the  wicket-gate, 

Or  hear  her  tones  of  joyful,  childish  glee. 

We  moved  the  sod  from  off  her  father's  breast, 

And  laid  her  down  to  her  serene  repose ; 
Upon  his  bosom  she  will  sweetly  rest, 

As  withered  bud  beside  the  parent  rose. 
Together  may  their  dust  be  mingled  there, 

E'en  as  their  souls  are  knit  beyond  the  tide  ! 
Together  may  their  deathless  spirits  share 

The  boundless  glory  of  the  Other  Side  ! 


'TIS    NOT    DEATH. 

'Tis  not  death,  but  only  gliding 

Upward  through  the  pearly  gate, 
Just  to  see  that  all  is  ready  ; 

Just  a  little  while  to  wait. 
Just  to  fan  the  Eden  bowers 

With  her  new-tried  angel  wings, 
And  to  sweep  her  snowy  fingers 

O'er  her  harp  of  golden  strings. 

'Tis  not  death,  but  only  mingling 

With  those  bright,  angelic  throngs, 
That  the  blessed  ones  may  teach  her 

All  their  grand,  triumphant  songs. 
She  will  learn  them  of  the  angels ; 

She  will  know  them  when  we  come, 
And,  before  we  reach  the  portal, 

We  shall  hear  her  "  Welcome  home  !" 

'Tis  not  death,  but  only  hastening 
To  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

207 


2o8  '775  NOT  DEATH. 

Just  to  learn  how  love  unmeasured 
Shall  be  hers  for  evermore. 

Just  to  feel  her  spirit  folded 
In  a  father's  warm  embrace, 

And  to  gaze,  with  joy  and  rapture, 
On  an  angel  sister's  face. 

'Tis  not  death  :  the  soul's  releasing — 

Bursting  of  its  prison  bars — 
Bounding  back  to  God  who  gave  it — 

Mounting  upward  to  the  stars — 
Is  but  life — 'tis  life  eternal 

Here  to  close  the  weary  eyes 
But  to  open  them,  with  transport, 

On  the  beams  of  Paradise. 

'Tis  not  death  :  we  have  not  lost  her : 

She  has  only  gone  before, 
Just  to  hold  a  welcome  ready 

When  we  reach  the  shining  shore. 
Earthly  ties  are  loosening  round  as, 

Earthly  hopes  are  laid  aside ; 
Here  in  flesh,  but  there  in  spirit, — 

Heaven  is  home  since  Maymie  died. 


THE    SADDEST    THING. 

I'VE  done  the  saddest  thing  to-day 

That  ever  fell  to  woman's  lot : 
I've  folded  all  her  clothes  away, 

And  every  treasured  plaything  brought 
To  lay  beside  them,  one  by  one ; 

Her  birthday  gifts  and  Christmas  toys, 
And  then  to  weep,  when  all  was  done, 

O'er  buried  hopes  and  vanished  joys. 

Her  little  dress,  in  childish  haste, 

Her  own  dear  hands  had  laid  aside ; 
Upon  the  pins  that  held  the  waist 

I  pressed  my  lips,  and  softly  cried. 
Within  her  gaiters,  'neath  my  chair, 

Two  half-worn,  crimson  stockings  lay, 
And  with  a  pang  of  wild  despair 

I  bent  and  hid  them  all  away. 

The  purple  ribbon  that  she  wore, 
The  coral  rings  and  pin  were  there, 

i 8*  209 


THE   SADDEST  THING. 

And  just  beneath  them,  on  the  floor, 

The  silken  band  that  tied  her  hair. 
A  handkerchief  that  bore  her  name 

Was  folded  like  a  tiny  shawl ; 
And,  wrapped  within  this  snowy  frame, 

Just  as  she  left  it,  lay  her  doll. 

It  bled  afresh,  this  wounded  heart, 

As  if  with  some  new  sorrow  stung, 
As,  with  a  wild  and  sudden  start, 

I  came  to  where  her  cloak  was  hung. 
I  caught  it,  sobbing,  to  my  breast, 

As  if  it  held  the  missing  form, 
And  in  low  murmurs  fondly  blest 

What  once  had  kept  my  darling  warm. 

Her  gentle  fingers  seemed  to  glide 

Across  my  brow  to  soothe  my  pain, 
As  from  the  pockets  at  the  side 

I  drew  the  gloves  that  still  retain 
The  impress  of  those  loving  hands, 

Whose  magic  touch  seemed  fraught  with  power 
To  cheer  me  'mid  the  scorching  sands 

Of  sorrow,  in  life's  desert  hour. 

Her  little  hat  no  more  will  take 
To  its  embrace  her  sunny  hair; 


THE  SADDEST  THING.  2n 

I  felt  that  my  poor  heart  must  break 

To  see  it  lying,  empty,  there. 
The  beaming  eyes  it  used  to  shade 

No  more  with  trustful  glanre  will  shine  ; 
The  grass  the  early  spring  hath  made 

Is  growing  'twixt  her  brow  and  mine. 

Her  silk  and  thimble  both  were  laid 

With  thread  and  scissors  on  the  stand  ; 
Her  dolly's  dress,  but  partly  made, 

Seemed  waiting  for  the  molding  hand. 
The  drawing  of  a  blighted  vine, 

Torn,  ruthless,  from  a  withered  tree, 
Meet  emblems  of  her  life  and  mine, 

Were  the  last  lines  she  traced  for  me. 

Oh  !  was  there  ever  grief  like  this  ? 

Can  sorrow  take  a  form  more  wild 
Than  sweeps  across  us  when  we  miss 

The  presence  of  a  darling  child  ? 
And  is  there  any  thought  that  cheers 

Like  this,  the  heart  by  anguish  riven, — 
That  Time  was  given  to  mark  our  tears, 

Eternity  to  measure  Heaven  ? 


I    MUST    LEARN    TO    LIVE     WITHOUT 
THEE. 

I  MUST  learn  to  live  without  thee,  must,  unmurmuring, 

learn  to  wait 
With  my  soul  bowed  down  within  me,  weary,  lone  and 

desolate ; 
Though  my  poor,  crushed   heart  still  yearneth,  all   her 

pleading  cries  are  vain, 
For  the  shining  ones  who  took  thee  may  not  bear  thee 

back  again. 
Oh !    it  seemeth  so  mysterious  that  the  Father  thought  it 

best 
Thus  to  rob  me  of  my  treasure,  when  the  mansions  of 

the  blest 

Were  all  full  to  overflowing,  while  around  the  mercy-seat 
Such  a  multitude  of  voices  joined  in  praises  low  and 

sweet. 

I  must  learn  to  live  without  thee,  but  'tis  only  for  a  time, — 
I  shall  see  thee,  know  thee,  love  thee,  in  that  fairer,  purer 
clime  ! 
212 


I  MUST  LEARN  TO    LIVE    WITHOUT   THEE. 


213 


I  will  search  among  the  angels  till  I  find  thy  radiant  brow, 
And  will  fold  thee  to  my  bosom  as  I  long  to  clasp  thee 

now. 
Thou  wilt  pause  to  bid  me  welcome,  though  the  bright, 

angelic  throng 
May    have   taught   thee    every   anthem,    every  full    and 

glorious  song, — 
Thou  wilt  hush  thy  harp  to  greet  me ;  thou  wilt  show 

me,  by  thy  choice, 
E'en  the  minstrelsy  of  heaven  may  not  drown  a  mother's 

voice. 

I  must  learn  to  live  without  thee ;   thou  wilt  watch  and 

wait  for  me 
Till  the  boatman  comes  to  bear  me  over  Death's  dark, 

mystic  sea ; 
'Twill  be  easier  far  to  heed  him,  when  his  summons  bids 

me  come, 
Than  if  thou  wert  left  to  mourn  me  in  a  clouded  earthly 

home  ! 
Oh  !  the  thought  of  thy  fond  welcome  is  the  day-star  of 

my  soul, 
And  in  dreams  I  leap  to  meet  thee,  spurning  distance  and 

control ; 

So  I  am  not  quite  forsaken,  though  of  life  and  love  bereft, 
While  thy  spirit  hovers  o'er  me  and  this  blessed  hope  is 

left. 


ANNIVERSARY. 

TO    MAYMIE. 

WHEN  first  them  went'st  my  yearning  heart, 

With  many  a  low,  despairing  cry, 
Kept  reaching  up,  with  sudden  start, 

As  if  to  draw  thee  from  the  sky. 
And  when  they  said,  "  Be  reconciled, 

And  know  it  is  the  Father's  will," 
I  only  moaned,  "  My  child  !  my  child  !" 

And  held  my  arms  to  clasp  thee  still. 
But  vain  were  all  my  pleading  cries ; 

My  prayers,  my  longings,  all  were,  vain  : 
My  wild  lament  might  reach  the  skies, 

But  could  not  call  thee  back  again. 

And  time  wore  on  ;  the  summer  days 

Dragged,  with  slow  step,  their  weary  length, 

While  upward  still  my  earnest  gaze 

Would  wander  as  I  prayed  for  strength. 
214 


ANNIVERSAR  Y. 

I  mind  me  when  the  great  eclipse 

Spread  its  black  wings  o'er  earth  and  sea, 
With  eager  eye  and  parted  lips 

I  stood  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  thee. 
I  said,  "  If  from  the  jasper  wall 

The  angels  lean  toward  friends  below, 
Thy  searching  glance  may  on  me  fall, 

Thy  gentle  whispers  soothe  my  woe." 
But  through  the  shade  no  gleam  was  given, 

I  could  but  watch  and  yearn  in  vain  ; 
It  only  met  the  frown  of  Heaven, 

My  wish  to  call  thee  back  again. 

And  so,  as  each  returning  year 

Brought  round  the  day  that  claimed  my  child, 
With  bursting  sigh  and  blinding  tear 

It  found  me  still  unreconciled. 
It  seemed  so  long  to  watch  and  wait : 

My  selfish  sorrow  made  me  blind  ; 
I  charged  my  bitter  loss  to  fate, 

Nor  felt  the  chastening  Hand  was  kind. 
The  wild,  wild  wish  to  have  thee  here, 

Close  to  my  heart,  in  joy  or  pain, 
Was  all  I  craved, — to  feel  thee  near, 

To  have  thee,  darling,  back  again. 


215 


2  x  6  ANNIVERSA  R  Y. 

But  now,  oh  now,  I  see  it  all 

With  vision  clear,  with  open  eyes, 
And  would  not,  if  I  could,  recall 

Thy  deathless  spirit  from  the  skies. 
Nor  will  I  think  the  blight  and  gloom 

That  sear  and  shade  a  world  like  ours, 
Are  known  to  those  who  rest  in  bloom 

And  brightness  in  the  Eden  bowers. 
Forever  safe,  forever  blest, 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  thou  wilt  remain ; 
And  from  that  true,  abiding  Rest 

I  would  not  call  thee  back  again. 


LINES    ON    RECEIVING    MAYMIE'S 
PICTURE. 

ARTIST,  I  thank  thee  for  the  pictured  face, 
Thy  genius  untranscended  bade  thee  trace; 
The  perfect  image  of  the  darling  one 
Who  waits  for  me  when  life's  sad  dream  is  done. 
How  bitter  my  regret,  when  last  I  pressed 
Her  marble  cheek  unto  my  yearning  breast, 
To  feel  that  never  more  those  earnest  eyes 
Could  give  returning  look  of  glad  surprise  ; 
That  never  more  those  pale,  cold  lips  could  press 
Mine  own  in  their  outgushing  tenderness ! 
And  when  they  thought  to  comfort  me,  and  said 
That  was  but  dust, — the  soul  forever  fled. — 
It  made  me  yearn  more  wildly  for  the  clay, — 
The  precious  features  they  had  hid  away. 
One  sunny  tress  was  all  that  I  might  claim 
To  treasure  up  and  link  with  her  dear  name ; 
And  a  rude  picture,  so  unlike  the  real, 
It  pleased  me  best  to  fancy  an  ideal 
Of  what  she  was,  and  send  Thought  softly  back 
To  meet  her,  bounding  over  Memory's  track. 
K  19  217 


2i8      LINES   ON  RECEIVING  MAYMIES  PICTURE. 

But,  oh  !  how  like  a  vision  from  the  skies 
Now  dawns  on  me  the  light  of  those  dear  eyes  ! 
How  my  pulse  quickens  as  those  lips  of  flame 
Seem  waiting  my  approach,  to  breathe  my  name! 
The  silken  lashes,  brow  and  cheek  so  clear, 
And  sunny  tresses  too,  all,  all  are  here  ! 
Ah  !  Heaven  forgive  me  if  I  dare  to  bow 

To  idol  such  as  this,  and  teach  me  how 

-  *:  . 
To  hush  my  spirit,  that  expectant  waits, 

And  flaps  her  pinions  'gainst  her  prison-gates, 
Impatient  to  be  gone.     This  mirrored  face 
Seems  sent  to  comfort  me — to  fill  her  place ; 
To  sit  beside  me  in  my  silent  room, 
As  was  her  wont,  and  cheat  me  of  my  gloom. 

Artist,  I  love  my  lyre,  and  though  each  strain 
That  wakes  beneath  my  touch  may  sleep  again 
Without  evoking  a  responsive  thrill 
From  other  hearts,  I  love  to  sound  it  still. 
But,  were  I  called  my  treasure  to  resign 
And  choose  a  rarer  gift,  it  would  be  thine, 
The  inspiration  of  thy  magic  Art ; 
The  power  to  soothe  and  thrill  the  yearning  heart. 


OUT    OF    THE    ARK. 

COMPOSED    FOR  AND  SUNG   BY  MRS.  JOHN  WYCOFF,  DURING 
THE    REVIVAL    MEETINGS    AT    KEOKUK,   IOWA. 

THEY  recked  not  of  danger,  those  scoffers  of  old, 

Whom  Noah  was  chosen  to  warn; 
From  constant  transgression  their  hearts  had  grown  cold, 

And  they  answered  his  pleadings  with  scorn. 
Yet  daily  he  called,  "Oh,  come,  sinners,  come! 

Believe  and  prepare  to  embark; 
Receive  his  kind  message,  and  know  there  is  room 

For  all  who  will  fly  to  the  ark. 
Then  come  !  oh,  come  !  oh,  come  ! 

There's  refuge  alone  in  the  ark." 

They  were  not  persuaded  ;  unheeding  they  stood, 

Unmoved  by  his  warning  and  prayer, 
Till  the  prophet  passed  in  from  the  oncoming  flood, 

And  left  them  to  hopeless  despair. 
The  flood-gates  were  open,  the  deluge  came  on, 

While  Heaven,  offended,  grew  dark; 

219 


220  OUT  OF  THE  ARK. 

They  turned  when  too  late  :  every  foothold  was  gone ; 

And  they  perished  in  sight  of  the  ark. 
Too  late,  too  late,  too  late  ! 

They  perished  in  sight  of  the  ark. 

O  sinners  !  the  heralds  of  mercy  implore  ; 

They  cry,  like  the  patriarch,  "  Come  !" 
The  old  ship  of  Zion  is  moored  on  your  shore ; 

Her  captain  declares  there  is  room. 
The  faithful  have  warned,  believers  have  prayed, 

Yet  you  cling  to  the  sin-deadened  host ; 
And  soon  of  your  perishing  souls  will  be  said, 

They  listened,  refused,  and  were  lost, — 
Were  lost,  were  lost,  were  lost  J 

Hear,  sinner,  your  doom — they  were  lost ! 


EIGHTEEN     HUNDRED     AND     FIFTY- 
NINE. 

OH,  a  grand  old  vessel  was  Fifty-Nine, 

And  a  captain  brave  had  she ; 
For  eighteen  hundred  and  more  stout  ships 

He  had  steered  over  life's  rough  sea. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  more  stout  ships, 

Bound  not  for  different  goals, 
But  all  for  the  same,  and  freighted  down 

With  cargoes  of  human  souls. 

And  some  of  these  souls  were  seared  by  crime ; 

Some,  sin  had  made  foul  and  black ; 
While  others  were  pure  as  the  flakes  of  snow 

That  cover  our  wild-flower  track. 
There  were  souls  of  monarchs,  and  souls  of  kings, 

(The  souls  of  their  subjects,  too  ;) 
And  some  were  treacherous,  false,  and  vile, 

While  others  were  heavenly  true. 

There  were  souls  of  brokers,  bare,  flinty  things, 
All  shaved  to  the  very  core, 

19*  221 


222      EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE. 

For  even  their  honor  was  loaned  on  time, 

At  a  hundred  per  cent,  or  more. 
There  were  coquettes'  souls  of  chameleon  dyes, 

And  bachelors',  knotty  as  pine, 
And  these  unsocial  and  selfish  souls 

Came  alone  to  old  Fifty-Nine. 

And  old  Captain  Time,  as  they  came  aboard, 

Counted  all  he  could  see ; 
But  some  were  so  narrow  and  shriveled  up, 

That  they  smuggled  their  passage  free. 

It  was  noon  of  night  when  the  ship  was  launched, 

But  the  ocean  was  calm  and  clear  ; 
And  merrily  on,  with  her  motley  crew,. 

Went  dancing  the  proud  New  Year. 
On,  past  the  glaciers  of  snow  and  ice 

That  decked  the  receding  shore  ; 
On  to  the  isles  where  the  spring-time  sleeps, 

Till  she  hears  Time's  distant  oar. 

And  the  forests  woke  when  they  heard  afar 

The  flutter  of  coming  sails  ; 
And  whispered  softly  a  low  salute, 

That  was  borne  by  the  passing  gales. 
And  every  eye  on  the  vessel's  deck 

Was  turned  toward  that  vision  bright ; 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE. 

And  those  who  worshiped  at  Nature's  shrine 
Were  thrilled  with  a  wild  delight.  „ 

For  those  isles  looked  fair  as  a  gleam  of  heaven 
Through  the  sunset's  golden  bars  ; 

Or  like  beauty's  cheek,  when  its  mantling  flush 
Is  seen  by  the  light  of  stars. 

The  ship  was  moored  where  the  gentle  flowers 

Breathed  fragrance  on  all  around, 
And  the  hours  to  some  of  the  host  within 

Brought  blessings  and  peace  profound. 
But,  hark  !  from  the  deck  of  old  Fifty-Nine 

A  shout  of  defiance  comes  ; 
Then  the  tramp  of  feet,  and  the  clang  of  war, 

And  the  roll  of  advancing  drums. 

"To  arms  !"  is  echoed,  in  thunder-tones, 

Through  the  din  of  the  cannon's  roar; 
While  sword  and  spear  and  the  fair  green  earth 

Are  sated  with  human  gore. 
But  Captain  Time  says  never  a  word 

To  still  the  contending  foes; 
He  has  promised  to  steer  the  ship  to  port, 

And  has  no  hours  to  lose. 


223 


224     EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE. 

He  is  out,  'mid  the  blast  and  the  shivering  sails, 
__    Tolling  the  funeral  bell, 
And  every  soul  that  can  hear  the  sound 

Sighs  at  the  parting  knell. 
It  tolls  for  one  who  has  journeyed  far, 

Whose  labors  a  world  may  boast ; 
Who  has  trodden  Atlantic's  crowded  shore 

And  Pacific's  quiet  coast; 

Whose  wanderings  led  him  o'er  Southern  plains, 

Where  eternal  sunshine  sleeps  ; 
And  up  to  the  loftiest  Alpine  height 

Through  snow-drifts'  'wildering  steeps. 
But  Life's  work  is  done,  and  the  mourners  pause 

That  the  billows  his  dirge  may  sing, 
As  the  dust  of  Humboldt  is  laid  to  rest 

On  the  breast  of  the  gentle  Spring. 

And  slowly  now  is  the  vessel  turned 

From  those  bright,  enchanting  isles, 
To  hasten  on  where  the  Summer  waits 

With  her  witching,  sunny  smiles. 
And  it  is  not  strange  that  those  saddened  hearts 

Grew  light  as  they  neared  her  bowers, 
And  caught  the  gleam  of  her  azure  robes 

Begirt  with  a  zone  of  flqwers  ; 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE.      225 

Or  that  Captain  Time,  though  his  form  is  bent, 

With  labor  and  age  and  care, 
Should  feel  a  thrill  through  his  palsied  frame 

When  his  ship  was  anchored  there ; 
That  the  hoary  seaman  should  half  forget 

The  weight  of  unnumbered  years, 
When  her  rippling  laugh,  through  ten  thousand  rills, 

Was  borne  to  his  aged  ears. 

But  see  !  as  they  coast  round  those  India  isles, 

Where  the  flowers  of  the  orange  blow, 
Where  the  bulbul  warbles  its  vesper  hymns 

By  the  light  of  the  fire-fly's  glow, 
With  the  speed  of  thought  he  has  left  her  side, 

And  fair  Summer  stands  alone  : 
For  off  'to  the  aft  of  old  Fifty-Nine 

Was  a  sound  like  a  dying  groan. 

He  has  reached  the  spot,  and  he  chants  this  dirge 

As  they  bear  the  dust  to  shore, 
And  lay  it  down  in  its  lonely  bed 

With  a  sigh  of  "  Nevermore"  : 

"Toll!  toll!  for  a  mighty  soul 

Is  anchored  in  harbor  now ; 
A  mind  creative,  whose  giant  thoughts 

Made  men  to  his  genius  bow. 


226      EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE. 

"Old  Fifty-Nine,  you  are  not  so  strong 

Since  you  yielded  up  this  prize ; 
You  will  feel  no  more  his  sustaining  arm 

When  feuds  and  dissensions  rise. 
He  will  slumber  here  while  incense  sweet 

From  the  date-  and  the  palm-tree  float ; 
And  a  nation  will  hold  in  its  heart  of  hearts 

The  name  of  the  statesman  Choate. 

"  But  reef  the  topsail  !  we  may  not  wait 

To  sigh  o'er  the  mighty  dead, 
For  I  know,  from  the  surge  of  yon  mountain  waves, 

There  are  breakers  and  shoals  ahead. 
Now  cheerily,  lads  !  though  the  billows  dash, 

And  the  morrow  bring  cloudy  weather, 
We  can  bring  her  through  with  her  motley  crew 

If  we  only  'pull  together.'  ' 

And  onward  now,  where  grave  Autumn  sits 

In  her  scarlet  robes  and  golden, 
And  presses  the  juice  from  the  purple  grape 

Like  matrons  in  vineyards  olden; 
Where  the  blushing  fruit  from  the  ardent  gaze 

Of  the  sun  drops  down,  to  cover 
The  deepening  flush  that  might  else  betray 

Her  heart  to  her  distant  lover: — 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE.      227 

To  this  calm  retreat  Time  hastens  on, 

To  rest  with  the  Autumn  sober, 
To  gaze  awhile  on  the  cloudless  skies 

Of  her  dreamy,  bright  October. 
But,  hist !  there's  an  echo  borne  to  his  ear, 

Too  feeble  for  distant  thunder; 
A  sound  as  if  fiends  on  old  Fifty-Nine 

Were  tearing  her  shrouds  asunder. 

He  turns  and  gazes ;  no  fleet  of  war 

Has  fired  a  signal  warning; 
He  sees  no  speck  upon  sea  or  sky 

On  that  fair  autumnal  morning. 
And  yet — 'tis  strange  (he  is  very  old, 

And,  perchance,  he  is  frail  and  doting) — 
But  he  fancies  he  sees  the  timbers  shake 

Where  the  Flag  of  the  Free  is  floating. 

And  he  thinks  he  hears  (what  absurd  conceits 

Make  mortals  unfit  to  reason  !) — 
He  thinks  he  hears  in  that  muffled  sound 

A  murmur  of  "Death  and  Treason." 
Yet  he  breathes  no  word  of  his  doubts  and  fears, 

Lest  they  call  it  imagination, 
Until  night  comes  on,  and  he  finds  the  clan 

At  their  murderous  preparation. 


228     EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE. 

And  he  looks  aghast  at  the  horrid  work 

The  shadows  of  darkness  cover, — 
On  the  thirsty  band  that,  like  birds  of  prey, 

O'er  their  slumbering  victims  hover. 
And  with  scorn  he  turns  from  those  dastard  souls, 

Their  mutinous  schemes  bewailing, 
While  thought  flies  off  to  the  days  agone, 

When  old  Fifty-Two  was  sailing. 

And  he  thinks  of  one  of  its  gallant  crew, 

Of  his  words  of  prophetic  warning, 
And  sighs  in  vain  for  a  Webster  heart, 

With  patriot  fervor  burning. 
"But,  true  hearts,  rouse  ye,"  the  captain  cries, 

As  the  tars  from  their  hammocks  spring ; 
"We  have  traitors  here  we  must  urge  to  stay, 

Till  we  let  them  off — with  a  swing." 

And  once  again  is  the  vessel  turned, 

To  stem  the  boisterous  gales 
That  blow  from  the  bleak  December's  shore 

And  moan  through  the  shivering  sails. 
And  hundreds  of  souls  are  landed  here 

On  this  coast  so  drear  and  bare, 
While  some  are  left  on  the  vessel's  deck 

With  looks  of  mute  despair  ; 


EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-NINE. 

For  they  see  their  captain's  form  on  shore, 

Afar  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
And  know  that  the  ship  is  dashing  on 

To  eternity's  waiting  tide. 
And  if  ye  list,  at  the  dead  of  night, 

To  learn  what  her  fate  may  be, 
Ye  may  hear  the  wail  of  old  Fifty-Nine 

As  she  sinks  in  that  soundless  sea. 


229 


20 


THE    FLAG    OF    THE    FREE. 

OH,  say!  did  you  hear,  'mid  the  tempest  of  War, 

That  swept   like  a   blight   through  the   heart   of  our 

Nation, 
The  soft  whisper  of  Peace  as  it  floated  afar, 

Like  an  angel  of  Love,  amid  strife's  desolation? 
Did  you  catch  up  the  sound 
As  it  floated  around  ? 

The  word  that  from  hill-side  to  vale  should  resound  ? 
If  so,  hasten  on  to  our  grand  Jubilee, 
And  rally  in  peace  round  the  Flag  of  the  Free. 

'Neath  its  wide-spreading  wing  did  the  dauntless  go  forth, 
Where  the  fife  and   the  drum  drowned    their   hearts' 

muffled  beating ; 

Left  the  fagots  ablaze  on  the  love-hallowed  hearth, 
A  Father's  kind  care  for  their  dear  ones  entreating. 
For  they  sprang  at  the  cry, 
Without  pause  or  reply, 

That  bade  them  go  forward  to  conquer  or  die. 
And,  with  colors  afloat,  on  the  land  and  the  sea, 
They  fought  for  their  rights  and  the  Flag  of  the  Free. 
230 


THE  .FLAG    OF  THE  FREE. 


231 


Oh  !  grandly  they  stood,  'neath  the  Stripes  and  the  Stars, 

Undaunted  by  those  who  their  Freedom  rejected ; 
And  proudly  it  waved,  'mid  the  conflict  of  Wars, 
Untrailed  and  upheld,  as  by  Heaven  protected. 
For  dead  patriots  were  there, 
Bending  o'er  them  in  air, 
And  guarding  our  banner  with  tenderest  care. 
And  'twas  these  held  the  standard,  that  faint  hearts 

might  see 
The  heaven-mirrored  blue  in  the  Flag  of  the  Free. 

Then,  Sons  of  Columbia,  in  concert  come  forth, 

And  kneel  where  was  purchased  your  Country's  salva 
tion  ; 

From  the  wide-spreading  West  to  the  life-teeming  North 
Let  "Many  in  One"  be  the  pledge  of  our  Nation. 
Oh  !  heed,  one  and  all, 
This  Centennial  call, 
"  United  we  stand  but  divided  we  fall." 
And  our  Country's  proud  Banner  in  triumph  will  wave 
O'er  the  Land  of  the  Free  and  the  Home  of  the  Brave. 


THE   FOLLOWING  ARE 

POEMS 

SELECTED   FROM  THE  WRITINGS   OF 

PROFESSOR   N.  R.  SMITH, 

FATHER    OF   THE   AUTHOR   OF   THIS    VOLUME. 


2O* 


233 


APOSTROPHE    TO    THE    GALAXY. 

WHAT  are  ye,  arrayed  in  your  robings  of  white, 
Beyond  where  the  sun  drinks  in  oceans  of  light ; 
Surmounting  the  stars,  ay,  the  farthest  we  see 
Just  penciling  heaven  to  prove  that  ye  be? 
A  cluster  so  dreamy,  expanding,  and  fair 
Creates  in  the  mind  a  fond  wish  to  be  there. 
Your  orbit  our  vision  can  never  descry  : 
What  are  ye,  in  fleecy  attiring  on  high? 

Bright  orbs,  do  ye  give  to  the  comet  its  ray, 

Careering  through  space  with  impetuous  sway? 

Or,  destined  as  vigils,  watch  over  expanse, 

To  guard  other  worlds  from  the  comet's  advance? 

So  clustering  are  ye,  so  dense  in  your  path, 

Ye  may  save  this  fair  earth  from  the  wanderer's  wrath. 

What  are  ye?     Oh,  say,  does  your  circuit  extend 
Round  orbs  where  the  angels  their  minstrelsy  blend  ? 
And  do  ye  pour  forth  on  the  throng  and  the  choir 
The  splendor  of  light  from  the  disk  of  your  fire? 
If  such  be  your  destiny,  Galaxy  bright, 
The  music  how  rapturous,  blended  with  light ! 

235 


236  APOSTROPHE    TO    THE    GALAXY. 

Like  the  songs  of  the  spheres  when  the  Deity's  voice 
In  the  light  of  creation. made  angels  rejoice. 

What  are  ye?     If  not  what  the  muse  has  defined, 

Then  are  ye  not  orbits  of  beautiful  mind  ? 

Are  the  white,  stainless  robes  ye  expand  to  our  view 

In  chasteness  the  emblems  of  mind  among  you? 

In  fancy's  excursions  behold  I  not  there 

In  your  orbs  so  resplendent,  your  region  so  fair, 

Intelligence,  rising  by  intellect's  force 

Still  nearer  to  Him,  of  perfection  the  source, 

With  natures  immortal,  all  spotless  in  soul, 

And  cherishing  mind,  as  in  splendor  ye  roll? 

Behold  I  not,  grouped  round  your  altars  of  praise, 
Your  children,  at  even,  their  orisons  raise? 
Or,  cheerful  and  happy,  in  youth's  ardent  glow, 
All  sporting  in  fields  where  the  wild-flowers  grow? 
A  father  bends  over  his  boy  with  a  smile, 
A  mother  caresses  her  infant  the  while; 
Joy  blended  with  joy,  and  bliss  mingled  with  bliss, 
In  the  fond  interchange  of  a  smile  and  a  kiss. 

Methinks  I  can  see,  by  your  rills  and  bland  streams, 
Your  poets,  entranced  in  elysian  dreams, 
Or,  waked  from  their  raptures  among  your  green  bowers, 
Rehearsing  their  numbers  while  culling  the  flowers; 


APOSTROPHE    TO    THE    GALAXY.  237 

The  learned  of  your  system — philosophers  wise, 
Astronomers,  mapping  the  stars  of  your  skies, 
Vast  oceans  expanding,  your  landscapes  serene, 
Your  redolent  groves  and  your  valleys  of  green. 

If  systems  of  mind  ye  are  not,  still  the  word, 
What  are  ye?     No  answer  but  echo  is  heard. 
Do  ye  lead  in  the  van  of  the  spheres  as  they  whirl  ? 
Is  the  vision  of  whiteness  the  flag  ye  unfurl  ? 
And,  on  the  reverse,  are  there  emblems  displayed 
Of  orbs  in  full  splendor  and  glory  arrayed  ? 

Whate'er  ye  may  seem  to  our  dim,  mortal  view, 
Bright  star-isles  that  gleam  in  your  ocean  of  blue, 
We  will  deem  you  a  stellar  assemblage  refined, 
And  with  you  compare  the  bright  grouping  of  mind, 
To  show  how  it  can,  like  the  stars,  by  its  glow, 
Relieve  our  life's  orb  from  the  gloom  of  its  woe. 


ANTICIPATION    AND    POSSESSION. 

WHY  do  we  grieve  when  fancied  joys 

Elude  our  grasp  and  fly  ? 
If  ever,  we  should  mourn  when  flits 

Some  dread  reality. 

Should  Hope's  delusions  mar  our  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  bewail 
The  wreck  of  Fancy's  brightest  dreams, 

When  what  we  have  is  frail. 

What  though  to-day  a  thousand  gems 

In  flattering  prospect  rise? 
What  though  to-morrow  every  one 

Elude  our  ravished  eyes  ? 

Should  Reason  prompt  us  to  repine 

For  what  was  ne'er  our  own  ? 
Or  rather,  will  it  not  reprove 

Our  grief  for  bliss  unknown  ? 


ANTICIPATION  AND   POSSESSION. 

What  can  Hope's  sunny  visions  yield, 

Her  fairest  beamings  lend, 
To  vie  with  joys  that  round  our  homes 

In  sweet  assemblage  blend  ? 

Is  not  the  spell  that  Woman  casts 

More  bland  to  heart  and  eye 
Than  all  the  promises  of  Hope, 

Or  Fancy's  imagery? 

Our  little  ones, — do  they  not  win 

Our  bosoms'  warmest  zeal  ? 
What  sweeter  than  the  pledge  of  love 

Can  dreams  of  bliss  reveal  ? 

Our  friends, — do  not  their  smiles  enhance 

The  joys  that  we  possess  ? 
Do  not  their  greetings  sweeten  life, 

And  make  its  sorrows  less? 

Yet  these  endeared  realities 

Mffy  leave  us  in  a  day  ; 
Far  wiser,  then,  to  have  and  love, 

And  mourn  when  they  decay. 


239 


THE     FEAST    OF     THE     FAIRIES. 

ONE  holy-night  the  fays  convened, 

All  in  full  mirth  and  glee; 
And  formed  a  gay,  fantastic  ring 

To  Zephyrs'  minstrelsy. 

The  fairy-dance  went  round  and  round, 

All  merriment  and  sheen, 
Till  one  fay  o'er  a  moonbeam  fell, 

And  broke  the  magic  scene. 

And  now  'twas  feast-time;  Fancy  called 

Each  airy-footed  sprite ; 
And  oh,  the  riot  that  prevailed 

Upon  that  festal  night ! 

> 
For  Fancy,  mistress  of  the  spell, 

Presided  o'er  the  cheer; 
And,  at  her  beck,  each  joyous  fay, 

With  viands  choice,  drew  near. 
240 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE   FAIRIES.  241 

The  dish  that  Love  had  ordered 
Proved  a  medley,  tough  and  tart ; 

Among  its  contents  she  discerned 
A  dry  and  shriveled  heart. 

It  was  a  bachelor1 's.     She  tore 

And  twisted,  wrenched  and  wrung, — 

At  length  she  spurned  the  gristly  thing, 
And  then  the  fairies  sung: 

"A  bachelor's  heart  does  not  belong 

To  heaven  or  earth,  we  trow ; 
We'll  toss  it  up,  and  we'll  toss  it  down, 

And  we'll  toss  it  to  and  fro." 

And  then  that  heart,  oh,  how  it  flew 

The  laughing  fays  among  ! 
As  football  some  the  odd  thing  struck, 

And  some  with  fury  flung. 

But  Fancy  frowned  upon  the  scene, 

And,  when  the  frolic  ceased, 
She  mixed  in  one  the  dishes  all, 

And  spoiled  the  fairies'  feast. 

i 

Oh,  then,  a  pretty  mess  appeared  ! 
Smiles,  kisses,  hearts  betrayed, 


242  THE   FEAST  OF   THE  FAIRIES. 

Forget-me-nots,  and  broken  vows 
Were,  in  rude  plight,  displayed. 

The  elves  they  had  not  feasted  yet, 
Shrill  chanticleer  crowed — one  ; 

The  moon  withdrew  her  golden  beams, — 
The  fairy-feast  was  done. 

But  ere  they  parted,  though  provoked 

At  Fancy's  churlish  ire, 
They  sang  the  song  they'd  sung  before, 

And  Zephyrs  joined  the  choir: 

"  A  bachelor's  heart  does  not  belong 
To  heaven  or  earth,  we  trow; 

We'll  toss  it  up,  and  we'll  toss  it  down, 
And  we'll  toss  it  to  and  fro." 


FLOWERS. 

WHO  loves  not  flowers? — a  forest  in  its  dress 
Of  verdure,  rich  with  figures  colored  bright  ? 
Not  gaudily,  but  with  such  hues  as  press 
With  a  soft,  mellow  touch  upon  the  sight, 
Wooing  the  vision's  love. 

'Tis  art  alone 

Yields  gaudy  tints  to  flowers  by  culture,  which 
Dame  Nature  ne'er  employs  when  they  are  grown 
In  fields  and  forests;  there  they  put  forth  rich, 
Indeed,  but  unassuming  forms,  with  cups 
For  dew  and  odors  for  the  zephyrs.     Naught 
Intrudes  there,  nothing  rude  that  interrupts 
The  plastic  course  of  Nature ;  all  is  wrought, 
The  smallest  flower  expanding,  to  emit 
Unsullied  fragrance,  pure  ambrosial  drops, 
Reflecting  colors,  by  its  structure  fit 
To  enchain  the  mind  in  thought.     The  storm  crops 
Not  a  blossom,  laying  the  forest  bare; 
From  among  the  ruins  every  flower  looks 
Blooming  still  without  a  nurse's  care, 
Save  Nature,  to  protect  it ;  and  the  brooks, 

243 


244 


FLOWERS. 


Though  cumbered  with  the  fragments,  still  gush  free 
To  bathe  the  violet's  head,  lest  Sol's  fierce  ray 
Might  else  the  floweret  sear. 

In  childhood's  glee, 

When  my  light  spirits  bubbled  up  in  play, 
I  thought  with  Darwin  lovely  flowers  could  feel, 
Were  sentient  beings,  and  could  laugh  or  weep. 
It  was  my  wont  to  sit  for  hours,  or  steal 
Around  to  see  the  florid  things  asleep, 
Or,  waking  up,  give  forth  a  cheerful  smile 
After  a  pleasant  nap.     Thus  to  employ 
My  time,  or  much  of  it,  did  oft  beguile 
With  rosy  bliss  the  too  confiding  boy. 
Yet  'twas  not  all  illusion.     Years  mature, 
With  notice  and  research,  conviction  brought, 
That  flowers  at  night  enjoy  repose,  secure 
From  harm,  as  if  the  blooming  gems  were  taught 
By  Nature  to  seek  rest,  awake  as  we, 
Refreshed,  and  with  the  morn  expand  in  bloom. 

Who  loves  not  flowers?     At  morn  and  noon,  the  bee 
Within  their  nectaries,  while  they  perfume 
The  air,  sips  honey  for  the  hive,  the  boon 
Imparted  freely  as  the  light  of  day; 
And  thus  do  flowers  instruct  us  to  attune 
The  heart  to  such  emotions  as  display 


FLOWERS.  245 

Unstinted  charity  from  private  means, 
And  while  we  thus  in  secret  give,  around 
Diffuse  benevolence  divine,  which  screens 
The  poor  from  wretchedness  wherever  found. 

Who  loves  not  flowers?     To  study  them,  to  learn 
The  use  of  every  organ,  how  it  plies 
Its  power  instinctive  to  one  end,  discern 
The  avenues  of  health,  and  when  it  dies, 
To  see  a  flower  resign  to  death  its  form 
With  all  its  loveliness;  these  to  the  mind 
Impressive  truths  convey,  the  bosom  warms 
With  pure  devotion,  feelings  all  refined. 

Who  loves  not  flowers?     'Tis  pleasant  to  converse 
With  them.     As  learned  mutes  their  thoughts  unfold 
By  signs,  so  Flora's  pupils  can  rehearse 
By  symbols  clear  and  cogent :   they  can  mold 
The  callous  heart  so  as  to  make  it  feel 
The  force  of  virtue,  can  convince,  reclaim 
The  inward  and  the  outward  man,  reveal 
What  Inspiration  urges  as  the  aim, 
Design,  and  reason  of  our  living  here  ; 
And  thus  with  Heaven's  own  Book  of  faith  and  love, 
Unite  in  yielding  proof  direct  and  clear 
Of  life  hereafter.     Then,  who  loves  not  flowers? 

21* 


O!     AND    OH! 

O  !  THE  enchanting  hues  that  rise 
To  deck  the  morn's  young  features  ! 

Oh  !  see  what  clouds  obscure  the  skies  ! 
Oh  !  back  !  ye  gloomy  creatures  ! 

O  !  who's  the  churl  that  can  refrain 

From  prospects  so  delightful  ! 
Oh  !  tempest !  lightning  !  thunder  !  rain  ! 

How  dreary  !  Oh  !  how  frightful ! 

O  !  pleasant  'tis  at  sea  to  view 

The  bright  horizon  round  you  ! 
Oh  !  where's  the  ship  !     The  storms  burst  through 

The  raging  waves  have  found  you  ! 

O  !  grateful  are  the  strains  that  pour" 

From  every  grove  and  bower  ! 
Oh  !  quaking  is  that  thunder's  roar  ! 

It  comes  with  deafening  power  ! 
246 


O!  AND    OH!  247 

O  !  blooming  as  the  rosy  skies 

That  fair  one's  glowing  beauty  ! 
Oh  !  loathsome  those  cadaverous  eyes  ! 

Complexion  !     Oh  !  how  sooty  ! 

O  !  how  that  form  regales  the  sense  ! 

What  symmetry  is  given  ! 
Oh,  ugly,  graceless  being,  hence  ! 

Earth  claims  thee  not  nor  heaven  ! 

O  !  what  a  boon,  in  weal  or  woe, 

Is  health,  life's  fairest  etching  ! 
Oh  !  oh  !  this  pain  !  this  sickness  !  Oh  ! 

Oh  !  oh  !  this  morbid  retching  ! 

O  !  favored  .they  who  never  want 

The  man  of  pills  to  call  up ! 
Oh!  torturing  bolus !  oh!  avaunt, 

This  calomel  and  jalap  ! 

O  friends  !  how  true  !     Oh,  foes,  how  base  ! 

O  wealth  !  Oh*  hard  dependence  ! 
O  blest  abode  !   Oh,  wretched  place, 

With  all  its  vile  attendants  ! 


248  O!  AND    OH! 

And  thus  in  O's  !  our  pleasures  flow  ; 

In  Ohs !  our  pains;  Oh!  galling! 
But  some — 'tis  wrong — use  Oh  !  for  O  ! 

And  O  !  for  Oh  !  appalling  ! 


TEMPERANCE  SONG  FOR  THE 
FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

TUNE. — "ROSE  OF   ALLANDALE." 

A  VOICE  is  heard  upon  the  gale, 

Shrill  joy  it  bears  along  ; 
From  city,  hamlet,  hill  and  dale, 

Bursts  forth  the  welcome  song. 
And  echo  sends  it,  long  and  loud, 

Through  all  the  land  with  glee ; 
Upon  the  air  glad  voices  crowd, 

Proclaiming — WE  ARE  FREE. 

The  cup  that  foamed  with  deadly  bane 

Is  dashed  upon  the  ground. 
'Twas  death  to  millions  at  the  fane 

Where  misery  was  found. 
An  angel  near  that  Dagon  drew, 

She  bade  the  prisoners  flee, 
And  sent  the  pledge  the  nation  through 

Proclaiming — THEY  ARE  FREE, 
i*  249 


250  A    TEMPERANCE  SONG. 

The  mother's  heart  with  joy  beats  high, 

Her  son's  no  more  a  wreck  ; 
The  beam  of  hope  is  in  her  eye, 

His  arms  around  her  neck. 
A  freeman,  him  her  bosom  claims 

With  all  a  mother's  glee, 
"My  child  !"  her  raptured  tongue  exclaims, 

"  My  child  !  my  boy  is  free  !" 

And  freemen  such,  this  day,  in  throngs 

To  country  homage  pay  ; 
They  welcome  Freedom  by  their  songs 

On  this,  her  holy-day. 
Then  let  the  temperance  flag,  unfurled, 

Our  country's  standard  be; 
And  wave  this  motto  to  the  world, 

"  Columbia  is  free  !" 


OLD    SOLDIERS. 

WE  love  the  spot  where  Valor  bled 

In  the  days  of  other  years ; 
Where  some  young  hero  bowed  his  head 

Whom  memory  endears. 

We  venerate  the  mound  where  lie 

Some  aged  veteran's  bones; 
Though  naught  denotes  his  victory 

But  rude  unsculptured  stones. 

Say  not  the  Revolution's  age 

In  memory  has  no  place : 
Because  the  present  has  its  page, 

The  former  to  efface  ! 

Old  soldiers,  those  who  yet  remain, 
Oh  !  guard  with  tenderest  care ; 

Remembering  that  they  sowed  the  seed 
That  made  us  what  we  are. 

251 


252 


OLD   SOLDIERS. 

Prop  up  those  withered  oaks  that  stand, 

Memorials  of  the  past : 
They  tell  and  point,  with  trembling  hand, 

Where  Liberty  was  cast ; 

Tell  where  the  hero  Washington 

With  his  compatriots  trod  ; 
Where  many  a  dauntless  warrior's  soul 

Passed  up  from  strife  to  God. 

Then  let  our  grateful  homage  prove 

Our  true  fidelity, 
To  those  whose  valor,  honor,  love, 

Were  pledged  to  make  us  free. 


THE    END, 


w 

* 
F 


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